


Forever

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Series: Epoch [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Aggression, Angst, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Daddy Issues, Dark, Deception, Difficult Decisions, Drama, Duty, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Honor, Hope, Lemon, Love, Love Triangles, Loyalty, Madness, Multi, No Slash, Obsession, Please Don't Hate Me, Plot, Politics, Responsibility, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Control, Strong Female Characters, Subterfuge, Traditions, Tragic Romance, True Love, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 108,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2249130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's one important question no one has asked: What would Uchiha Madara see in his Infinite Tsukuyomi? The story of Uchiha Madara, and the woman he would do anything to see again, even if it meant defeating death itself.</p><p>Or, why Madara really just needs your hug right now.<br/>It has come to my attention that I wasn't obvious enough that there's sexual content contained herein? *tagstagstags* You're welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things You Should Know, Before We Begin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DreamingDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingDragon/gifts).



> For DreamingDragon, because I love her and she's not feeling well.  
> \--  
> Watch as I make you feel bad for Madara, even if you think he's a bastard now and are convinced I cannot make you like him. (Subscribe for email updates!)
> 
> Total length will be about 106,000 words. Updating every day.

* * *

 

Foreword

* * *

 

Before I give this to you, I wanted to share with you a few things, if you don't mind (if you do, just hit next chapter below):

  
I got the idea for this writing other pieces. Some of you have heard me mention a larger piece inspired by my work Peach Flower. That larger piece (now on hold... because my cowriter has been MIA for over 4 months now and might be dead?) inspired **"The Devil, the God, and the Magnolia."** And then I got to thinking that strong, vibrant, badass Mito might be the whole reason Madara is fucked in the head. And that got me thinking of all kinds of things. Now I have this. I typically try to make romance a PART of a story, rather than the central focus, but in this I think romance IS the central focus. It's a controversial pairing, of course, so you're welcome to take it or leave it. I have plenty of other shit you can read, after all. Madara's going to seem a little OOC because *I* think he's hiding something to protect himself. Mito might piss you off. And Hashirama... well, he's always going to be adorably goofy, and I love him to bits. AND YES, EVERYONE IS BAD AT MATH. There, I said it. There's a whopping big secret hidden in plain sight here that no one seems to catch onto. Deal. 

 **A note on the title:** Using "Forever" seems a little cliche and cheesy for my usual work. However, the word and all of its meaning shows up throughout, and I think Madara's scheme to literally come back from the dead doubles up the meaning. His definition and Mito's seem to be a little different. 

 **A note on ages:** I use Seelantau's timeline on the Naruto wiki for most things. It's pretty damned good, but as most of you know, the Naruto storyline is convoluted and sometimes contradicts itself, so it's not perfect. For the purpose of this story, I made Madara and Hashirama the same age, Mito 1 year older, Izuna 5 years younger and Tobirama 3 years younger. I think that corroborates Madara being so protective of his younger brother, and Tobirama being so mature and responsible. At the beginning of the story, the Leaf Village cofounders are 18. Shinobi grow up fast, faster in a war era. I still wanted them to be a little hotheaded and inexperienced, though, so I started there. 

 **My writing style is hasty.** I know this. I have so many ideas clamoring to leave my imagination and be written down that I slam out stories faster than most. I edit them as much as I can, but I HATE writing tiny little details, like the angle of a hand or the way the wind is blowing. Fuck it. I do what I want. It makes it less vivid, but it lets me publish faster so I can move on. I'm trying to spend more time on this one, though, because I want it to be really powerful. Please, if you have the time to leave me a comment, I appreciate knowing if I am succeeding in entertaining you. Comments, in all honesty, make my day. I remember you when you leave comments, and I listen to your feedback. I have, on occasion, been known to write things especially FOR you, just because I want to make you happy. 

One more thing: **I try to be as canon-compliant as possible.**  (Spoiler alert?) I don't always succeed. So feel free to point out my flaws. I probably won't change anything, but I do like to know about it. It's fanfiction, though. Whatever. Most writers do whatever they want regardless of what I want to read, so HERE *pushes story at you* Just fucking read it. :P

Thanks for all of your support!

\--Duckess


	2. Bloodline

Madara was standing around a map, both hands pressed to the paper, when Izuna burst into the tent. “Madara-nii-san, look at what Mura has figured out!” he exclaimed excitedly, barging in on the war conference without a thought as to what he might be interrupting.

Madara looked up from the map, annoyance tinged with fondness. Izuna should have been at the war council from the beginning, but no one had been able to find him. Apparently, he’d been ‘playing’ with his friend Mura this whole time. But Mura was a precocious genius, and Madara had to admit that he was curious to find out what Mura had discovered now. The young boy’s toys had included all kinds of sharp weapons and gruesome traps. Whether or not Mura understood what he was inventing mattered not; ten-year-old Mura was giving the Uchiha the edge in the wars that never ended.

One glance at their father sobered Madara, though. Tajima’s arms were crossed, his expression severe. “Izuna!” he bellowed, drawing himself up to his full height. Izuna’s face fell and he froze, staring up at his angered father and dropping his hands. In them was a carefully smoothed scrap of paper, now forgotten. Tajima paused, giving Izuna just enough time to feel like a fool, before he continued. “You live in times of war, and this is a war council. Who are you?” he demanded. It was a question that he often asked his two remaining sons.

Izuna’s eyes fell to the floor of the tent as a dozen other pairs of eyes stared at him. “Uchiha Izuna, of the Uchiha clan,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

“Louder, so we can hear you!” Tajima growled. “And look me in the eyes, boy!”

Izuna’s eyes snapped to his father’s filled with the undiluted fire of Uchiha genetics. “Uchiha Izuna, of the Uchiha clan!” he repeated, his voice aging years, a reversed echo of the powerful man he would become. There were nods of approval from the elders, observing the posture, tone, and pride of Madara’s little brother.

Tajima’s face softened only a fraction. Just once, Madara wished that his father would indulge his youngest son, even if he understood why the man did not. They were embroiled in a war, after all. Always had been, it seemed.

Always would be, it seemed.

Madara sighed with affection and held out his hand to Izuna. “Izuna,” he beckoned softly. “Better late than never. Let’s see what Mura-san has come up with.”

Izuna’s face brightened with purpose as the elders parted, leaving a gap for the boy to fill. Izuna deposited the small sheet of paper into his elder brother’s palm. Madara brought it closer to his face, stroked the kanji with a fingertip, and peered closely at it. Unconvinced, he raised an eyebrow at his little brother. “It’s just a piece of paper,” he noted dubiously. He held it up for all to see, and there were murmurs of disgruntlement.

Tajima sighed with exasperation even as Izuna’s smile brightened even further, as if laughing at some private joke. “Late to a war council for drawing lessons,” Tajima grumbled, depositing his forehead into his palm.

“It’s not a drawing lesson,” Izuna retorted, waving one hand wildly towards the gingerly held paper in Madara’s fingers. “It’s an explosive tag.”

Madara blinked. “A what?”

“An explosive tag,” he repeated. He formed the sign for Snake. “Watch, I’ll show you.”

Before he could, Madara thrust the paper into Izuna’s hands, forcing him to abandon the hand sign, suddenly wary. “If it’s going to explode, Izuna, we’d better do it outside,” he insisted. With a warning glance at his father, he ushered Izuna outside the tent.

Tajima frowned, but said nothing. He and his son butted heads often; Madara was the eldest, and destined to one day lead their clan. Though it certainly irked his father, Madara suspected that Tajima’s suffering of his son’s attitude was endured with pride, too. Madara had no doubts about his own abilities. Madara would surpass his father, and soon.

But Madara also had no doubts about Izuna’s. His little brother wasn’t so little anymore, and he was intelligent, too. Izuna had fixated on Mura, and Mura was creating weapons. Izuna had been fighting in the wars, too, but his younger, weaker body was his handicap. He and Mura were doing their utmost to come up with ways to lessen the death toll, and Madara knew innately that Izuna was trying his best not to die. Strength and experience would come with time, but there were years in between now and then, and he truly did not wish to die.

Madara suppressed his smile as Izuna affixed the paper tag to a stone some distance away. He hurried back to where the others were standing, an intensity born of the strong desire to survive. One glance between the two brothers told Madara, too, that Izuna was hoping that the explosive tags would protect his family, as well.

He focused his attention on the targeted stone and formed the hand sign. Instantly, the tag detonated in a ball of light and fire. There was a deafening boom and a crack as the stone was split asunder. Bits of jagged rock blasted everywhere, and Madara had to cover his eyes as pieces soared into the soft skin of his hands. When the dust cleared, the stone was no longer there, and Izuna was grinning like an idiot. Madara’s ears were ringing, but he was smirking nonetheless. It had been… impressive.

Izuna looked at Madara, waiting. Madara looked at Tajima. Tajima looked at Izuna. There was a moment of sustained silence as everyone else looked at Tajima, their leader and general. He was the man who held their lives in his hands, and ultimately, the decision was his. Tajima clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulders and smiled suddenly. “Excellent discovery, Izuna,” he commended, drawing him toward the opening to the tent. “Let’s discuss this at the war council.”

The lot of them returned to their map. Upon the map were stone effigies of soldiers. They had been painted different colors to represent different clans. There were numerous statues littered across the map. Red represented the Uchiha. Madara guessed it was some cheeky lord’s idea of a joke, red for ‘fire,’ their signature ability. The Senju were green; again, probably a humorous representation of their homeland, for they were called the “Senju of the Forest.”

Hashirama’s people, he thought with concern. Once upon a time, the two had been friends. They had guessed that they were from opposite clans, but Madara had never had a friend before, and neither had the other boy. For a while, they pretended that no one would ever find out, right up until the moment that someone did. _Still, he did warn me of that attack,_ Madara remembered. He had done the same for Hashirama, each of them trying to silently protect the sons of the enemy as their families clashed.

 _We were just boys_ , he reflected. _Boys who hadn’t fully understood what it meant to be men._ They had seen their brothers die in battle, and had stood next to their fathers as the men strove to claim the lives of the other. They had seen so much blood and death in their meager lifetimes that peace was nothing but a dream, and yet… all they had wanted was a true friend, and they’d have done anything to preserve that fragile fantasy.

And now? he thought, looking upon the age worn map, and all those green soldiers. _Hashirama’s father is dead. He’s the leader of the Senju now, and his armies would destroy us…_

_…wouldn’t they?_

He thought of the young boy’s mischievous grin as they skipped stones, trying to outdo the other in their childish quest for dominance. He remembered Hashirama’s impassioned dreams of how they two would build a village, and all of their people would be friends and allies. _And children won’t have to die, and our brothers wouldn’t either._

They had dreamed of foolish notions like _friends forever_ and _world peace._ Now, his ‘friend’ led a fearsome force against his people, and his brother. Family members had been lost on both sides since Hashirama had become their lord, and yet… when their blades clashed, Madara knew he was holding back. He felt it in the strain of steel, saw it in the pained corners of Hashirama’s eyes, believed it with every fiber of being. Hashirama didn’t want to kill him, even though he probably could, any more than Madara wished to see him dead... but they still had no way to get out of this war.

Madara flickered a glance at his father as the older man began to move pieces on the map. He loved his father as any son loved a father, but Uchiha Tajima had lost too much to the Senju. He refused to accept that the Senju had suffered anything as ludicrous as ‘equal losses.’ The life of an Uchiha could not be quantified, given a defined value to be used in comparison with another. As long as Tajima was their lord and leader, the Uchiha would seek to eradicate the Senju, that much was that.

Izuna, standing between Madara and their father, had a grim set to his mouth. A moment ago, he’d been pleased, but his face held no more of that happiness now. Madara had a good idea why. Izuna disliked killing as much as any of his brothers had. With the same motivation that he used to discover and implement new weapons, he also fervently wished for the day they were no longer needed. Madara often wondered if his little brother were wiser than he; after all, how old did a soul need to be to understand that, despite not wanting to kill anyone at all, that in their current predicament, others would have to die so that he might live? At thirteen, Izuna understood the battlefield motto of ‘kill or be killed.’

If he and his friend built that village, Izuna would be smiling.

“…we can change our strategy, now, with this,” one of the lords was saying, brushing stubby, dirty fingers over the lines on the map. “If we set up a trap of explosion tags here, hidden in the ground…” he stabbed a finger on the map. “We can break and retreat, make them follow us, turn and fight them…”

Tajima grinned, a frightening, toothy smile in the candlelight. “We can detonate, and wipe out their entire army.” The other lord smiled in return and nodded slowly.

Two devils, playing with the lives of men in a brutal game, competing for the most deaths, Madara reflected bitterly. And yet, this was his world, his life now. Any day, his father could die in battle, and these greedy, bloodlusty warlords would be his counsel. He could see it now, lecturing them on tenets of peace and trying to discuss terms of surrender while their calloused hands stabbed holes in a bloody map. How sick it all made him.

“What do you think, Madara?” his father asked him, trying to hide his smile so that his son could offer a supposedly unbiased opinion. He had been doing this more, lately, wanting Madara to chime in or give him the illusion that he was in charge. The other lords accepted it patiently; he was well respected among his people, even if he did feel out of place.

Madara crossed his arms and searched the faces of the other generals. If there was anything he had learned about leadership, it was that no one wanted his opinion. They wanted to hear _their_ opinions come out of _his_ mouth. “Yeah, set up a line of tags, hedge them in there and blow them up,” he replied flippantly. In his mind, he was counting up the death toll, imagining chunks of people and watching Hashirama lose his mind over his broken, dead brother. It was a scene he didn’t want, a strategy he didn’t like. He peeked at Izuna; his little brother was mouthing the words “I’m sorry” and trying to look it. It wasn’t his fault; both of them walked a fine line between what they wanted and what the clan demanded of them.

“Madara,” his father warned, sensing one of his famous moods.

Madara iced over and shot his father his best death glare. His patience snapped. “What do you want from me, otou-san? Surely these new explosive tags will kill a large number of Shinobi, if we can get our own troops out in time. It’s brilliant.” And cowardly, he reflected. But fair fights cost lives.

“Then why are you so unhappy?” his father asked suspiciously.

Madara sighed and opened his mouth to answer. It was Izuna’s voice that spoke, however. “A massive loss of life should not make a man happy,” his little brother opined. “This war cannot be helped,” he countered smoothly before his father could object, “but that we have to resort to brutal tactics is a tragedy in its own way.”

 _Thank you_ , he mouthed to his brother. Izuna had saved him an entire fight with their father. Being the younger sibling had some slight advantages. Izuna didn’t have as many expectations settled upon his shoulders, so he got away with a tiny bit more. Izuna’s nearly imperceptible smile gladdened his heart. At least he had one true ally among his bloodthirsty family.

“The strategy is sound,” Madara reiterated. “I agree with this plan.”

Father and son stared at each other, daring argument. They were of a height now, and Madara’s muscles at eighteen were filling out his frame. They were more or less equals, though no one dared say so in Tajima’s hearing. It would be best to leave it here where both sides agreed. If their argument turned physical, someone would get hurt. “We will do that then,” he said to his counsel, returning his attention to the map. “We’ll station our men here…”

* * *

 

“You keep poking at him,” Izuna was complaining as he dipped his brush. “Why do you keep poking at him?”

“He’s wrong,” Madara said tiredly. “I think if the war ended tomorrow, Uchiha Tajima would commit seppuku on principle alone.”

Izuna smiled and raised an eyebrow. “His whole life has been about this war,” Izuna reminded him, though he hardly needed it. He peered over as Madara’s brush copied the strokes. He needn’t have worried; the Sharingan assured that he got the strokes right every time.

“So has mine,” he complained, “but you don’t see me singing its praises.”

“You’re still going to build that village, aren’t you? The one you talked about with—“

“Shh,” Madara shushed him abruptly. “Don’t say that here. If anyone thought we were still friends…”

“You’re not still friends?” he asked with mock suspicion, knowing the answer.

“No,” Madara said with exaggerated severity. “We are not friends.”

“Might be nice to have friends,” Izuna mused as he stacked another tag on the pile. “Promise me that if you do make that village—“

“Stop talking as if you’re going to die,” Madara chastised. “I won’t let that happen.”

“I’m not as strong as you,” Izuna said sadly, redipping his brush. “The chances of my survival are slim.”

Madara finished his tag and stacked it, then stood. “Come on,” he commanded, holding out his hand.

“What? We’re still drawing tags,” Izuna observed, gesturing at the stack of papers and the bottles of ink.

“I don’t care, just get up and come on.”

Sighing, Izuna set down his brush and stood, grasping the proffered hand. “Where are we going this time?”

They fell into stride, side by side. Madara’s disdain for war morphed into something that he could work with, at least. Izuna must not die. He had lost all of his other brothers but this one, his best brother. He couldn’t fight a war whose purpose was to kill another clan for no other reason than that it was the other clan.

He _could_ fight a war to save Izuna.

“We’re going to start training. Today. Tomorrow. Every day, from this day until the end of days. I’ll teach you everything I know, tell you everything I learn. We will fight, and you will grow stronger. We will be the same.” They had been playing and training together since they were children, but the stakes were so much higher now; it was time that they took their practice more seriously as well.

Izuna frowned, uncertain. “Surely your time will be better spent with Father and—“

“No,” Madara interrupted. “Father will be dead soon, and hopefully those other fools will, too.” He stopped, gripping his younger brother’s shoulders in both of his hands. “ _You will not die_ , Izuna, you hear me? There is _no better use for my time_ than to make sure of it.”

 


	3. Medicine

“Medic!” he cried desperately, crashing to his knees upon the ground. There was blood in his eyes, and it was interfering with his ability to use the Sharingan. He blazed its powers wildly, striking out at any enemy that came too close. Belatedly, he realized that if there were a medic, he might hit them, too. He sagged, feeling defeated. “Medic,” he mumbled, feeling the strength sapped from his limbs.

The battlelust was waning. Adrenaline faded from his system, and as he mourned its loss, the pain returned. He took stock of his wounds. The broken fingers weren’t a problem. Neither was the blow to the head he had apparently taken. The worrisome part was the deep gash in his thigh. It was gushing precious blood and simply would not stop bleeding. He had tried to wrap his shirt around it, but somewhere along the way, the knot had come undone and now his shirt was gone.

“Medic…”

His eyes blinked rapidly, attempting to clear the blood from his eyes so he could see. Through the red haze, he saw the banner waving. _The retreat,_ he realized. _The final retreat, right before the…_ “Big boom,” he giggled. He shut his eyes, accepting the end.

There was a crash of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning. A lot of _heat_. He shut his eyes and blacked out.

* * *

 

He was sure he was dead when he dreamed of a maiden. There were exceedingly few women on the battlefield, so he had to be dead or dreaming. His eyes were covered, but her voice was rich and silken as she told him to lie still. He felt his clothing being removed and praised the heavens above. _If I am dead, it isn’t so bad,_ he vowed.

He was slain when he felt her hands upon him, and he moved to cover them with one of his own. He managed to capture one of her hands before she tried to pull away, but despite his weakened state, he held fast. “Who are you?” he begged, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

There was a sharp exhalation of breath as she squirmed her hand out of his grip. “It is better if you don’t know,” came the terse reply.

“I’m—“

“It’s better if I don’t know, either,” she broke in, even more insistent. He backed off, for he didn’t have the energy to press. Her hands went back to his chest, and he sighed into her touch.

“You’re right,” he agreed, letting his hand fall. It was still nice to be cared for. “I must be dead after all,” he murmured as he returned to his slumber, for surely she did not belong out here. He was grateful, anyway, that she was there, whether she was real or not. His last thought was wishing that he had at least gotten to see her face before he passed.

* * *

 

 _This is fate,_ she decided, watching the big man sleep, wincing in unconscious pain with every breath. His skin was blistered with heat scars from head to toe, there was an angry, weeping wound on his thigh, broken through her quick patch healing, and he’d clearly taken a heavy blow to the head. “You should be dead,” she whispered after he’d proclaimed that he must be, tracing light fingertips over the wounds. Unconsciously, his hand moved to cover hers again and, because he was sleeping and knew not what he was doing, she allowed it. If touching her gave him comfort and helped him to heal, it would be all to the good.

With her other hand, she delved her own chakra into his body and began knitting up the worst of it. Her patch on his thigh had broken on the journey, and, though it didn’t bleed as heavily as before, it still needed to be repaired. He sighed with pleasure at the warm contact of energy and stirred in his sleep. She couldn’t help but smile as the wound in his thigh closed up again. His injuries would still take some time to heal, but she was not in the habit of completely depleting her chakra unless a life was threatened, and whoever this was, he was in no danger of dying now. His broken fingers she left alone. Setting the bones now would wake him, and he was exhausted already. It would be better if he slept through the wounds inflicted by his burns.

 _It_ has _to be a fated meeting,_ she thought again as her eyes roamed his bare body. She had never seen an unclothed man before, and the sight of it intrigued her. She couldn’t keep herself from tracing the lines of hard muscle, marveling at how firm a man’s body was compared to a woman’s. She had chosen to stand up for herself, to tell her father that she was, under no circumstances, going to marry whomever he told her to, and now... this.

As the heir to the Uzumaki clan, and unfortunately a woman, she was raised with certain expectations. She would need to marry into another powerful clan and use the disadvantage of her sex to further clan connections across the land. Her body was nothing but a tool, to be given to her husband for the purpose of procreation and to further his name. Her marriage would be arranged by her father, and she would have little say in the matter, if any. She had been raised to be accepting of this fact, but as her mind aged and matured, she found herself less pleased by the idea. How could anyone expect her to marry a man she had never met? What if he was unkind? What if he was three times her age? What if she just simply didn’t like him?

Her eyes wandered to the sleeping man with his badly broken fingers curled tightly around hers, oblivious of the pain. _What if he’s like him, though?_ she wondered with a girlish blush on her pale cheeks. Powerful, handsome, and gentle. _That_ would be ideal.

Without warning, he shivered, and her medical senses flared in alarm. She lay the back of one hand to his forehead. He was freezing. One swift environmental check and she realized that yes, it was chilly out here in the wilderness. It was only the onset of spring, and deep in the cool forest the temperature was much lower than it was in the sunshine. Furthermore, she’d found him without a shirt on, and she didn’t have anything that would fit him. And, too, there was that small matter of her having run away from home with nothing but the clothes on her back.

His fingers tightened on hers and his teeth chattered, and she felt obligated to fix it, somehow. She could build a fire, but so soon on the heels of battle, that might be unwise. Any stragglers from either army might see the flame in the approaching evening, and she did not wish to be found out. There was only one way she could think of to warm him, though, and she found it embarrassing. After all, she knew nothing about this man, and she had shared her skin with no man before. Her modesty was strangely important to her, though it probably didn’t help that her father had reiterated that she was a useless marriage prospect if any man lay with her that was not her husband.

Despise her father she might, but Mito found herself desperately wishing for his approval anyhow. _If he could see me now,_ she thought wryly as she shed her kimono and draped the elaborate folds of fabric over them both.

 _Don’t you freeze to death,_ she pleaded silently, setting her mouth in a firm line as she pressed her skin to his wounded body. _If I have to bare myself to you just to have you die, you will never be forgiven._ She tried not to shift too much in consideration of the nasty burns, but contact was necessary. Once she was comfortable--relatively speaking--she loosed a heavy sigh, critical of the situation. Hopefully, he wouldn’t wake while she was still snuggled into him in naught but her skin. Her mouth drew into a firm frown, intensely uneasy.

As time passed, however, the discomfort faded. She hadn’t realized how tense she was until her muscles began to relax. It was oddly soothing, she soon discovered, to feel the warmth of another person’s skin upon one’s own. Before long, she found her face pressed into his arm, breathing easier than she had in a long time. The warmth that generated between them was like a drug, and she was worn out from the effort of the day's work and healing his injuries. Before long, her eyelashes fluttered and closed. _I’ll just rest my eyes for a short while,_ she told herself. _I’m not tired._ But the sounds of the forest were hypnotizing, and the sound of another person’s heartbeat and breathing was a rhythm that promised pleasant dreams. Before long, she was dragged into slumber, and she didn’t care enough to fight it.

As they lay sleeping, he was unaware that he had reached for her, and she was unaware that she had wrapped herself up in his embrace.

* * *

When she awoke, eyes drifting open and across to the one she lay with, he had taken off the head bandage, and his dark eyes were staring deep into her soul. “Who are you?” he demanded quietly, calmly. His tone was commanding, noble even, a voice used to being obeyed. He expected her answer, immediately and without waffling.

Despite that, she knew she could never give her name. She couldn’t be sure that this man was an ally, and the risk was not worth it. “You probably don’t remember our conversation,” she mumbled, more to herself. Of course he didn’t remember discussing their names—or lack thereof. “Do you usually give out your name to strangers?” she asked instead.

He peered into her eyes, and she realized suddenly that he had not let go of her fingers. Because he didn’t trust her? Or because he did? “No,” he answered after a moment.

His glance flickered down her front, and belatedly she remembered that neither of them were wearing any clothing. She blushed, crossing her arms over her body. “You were wounded, and freezing to death,” she explained. “I… couldn’t think of anything else.”

A smile played at his lips, but to his credit, he managed to keep it to himself. “I suppose it was you that saved my life then. I thank you for it." 

She lowered her eyes modestly. “It was nothing.” She rose from their spot on the ground and began the process of redressing. Then, she looked down at the wounded man. Was reminded that her kimono had been their blanket for the night. She bit her lip, grasped the edge of the fabric, and jerked it off of his body.

He shivered dramatically. “Still cold,” he told her with a smirk, as if being naked came completely naturally to him and didn’t bother him at all.

“Your trousers are there,” she told him, pointing without looking. “You weren’t wearing a shirt,” she further explained. When he couldn’t see it, though, she smiled, enjoying the banter. Since leaving home, she had had few truly friendly conversations; she hadn’t talked to many people, by personal choice. She waited as he slowly—too slowly, even for a wounded man—found his pants and tugged them on. After a minute or so, she realized what he must be doing: waiting for her to lose patience and peek at him again.

She would not let him win.

“How did you save me?” he asked conversationally. She heard him hiss in pain as the coarse fabric of his clothes scraped against tender, healing skin.

“Careful,” she cautioned, ignoring the question.

“Done,” he announced.

She turned to see him, glad that he hadn’t lied. Having to see him nude for professional reasons was completely different than choosing to see him for personal reasons. It _was_. They watched each other awkwardly for several moments. His eyes were fixated on hers. She was not going to wilt under anyone’s scrutiny, though, so she was matching him stare for stare. Finally, when she’d had enough of it, she broke the silence. “I don’t know who you are, or how to return you to your people, whoever they are,” she admitted. “But, you won’t be ready to travel alone for at least another week.” She flicked a glance down his front, indicating his many wounds. “Your burns still need healing attention, and you’ve taken a blow to the head. You shouldn’t be alone until we’re sure your mind is okay.”

He frowned. “My mind is fine.”

Her chin rose. “Are you a medic?” she challenged. It was a gamble. She had no idea if he was a medic, but judging solely by his musculature, he was a combat fighter only, and she was confident enough to try to browbeat him into submission. Medics were famous for harassing patients, anyway, she reminded herself, and she hadn’t had a whole lot of practice with it. He shook his head with a sheepish grin. “A blow to the head could be fine,” she explained clinically, “but if you stress yourself over the next few days, your brain could hemorrhage and you could die. I would feel much better if you remained for a few days. It would look poorly upon me if I saved you only for you to march to a fool’s death.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “You win,” he told her. “I’ll stay. If you wanted to spend more time with me,” he commented teasingly as he sat back upon the ground, “all you needed to do was say so.”

She shot him a furious glare before starting a fire, and eventual breakfast. And so passed the first day between Uchiha Madara and Uzumaki Mito.


	4. Modesty

Breakfast wasn’t as awkward as he might have thought that it would be, even if they talked only seldom. His mind and his eyes were too preoccupied with the questions he shouldn’t have been considering. He wasted little thought on important matters such as how he had come into her care, which clan she served, or where they were. Instead, he busied his mind wondering mundane things that should not have mattered. What was her name? How much did she know about healing? Did she have a lover? He had discovered a kind of peace, wondering these things, as he watched the slight and graceful woman moving about their makeshift campsite. The world he was in and the war that raged within it hardly seemed to matter anymore. She was a vision, and he was loath to look away.

Here, now… it was just the two of them, a cheerful bonfire and a plain cookpot. He felt neither threatened nor pressured to leave at that moment in time. This woman, whoever she was, had saved him from death. He owed it to her to learn what he could of her.

At least, that’s what he told himself. The reality was actually much more interesting.

Oddly enough, he found himself completely entranced by everything about her. She was absolutely stunning, and he wasn’t just thinking it due to his limited experience with women. She had the most fascinatingly red hair he had ever seen. With a laugh to himself, he realized that he had, in fact, never met a woman with red hair at all. This was a first for him. It looked incredibly soft, which begged the question: was it really as soft as it looked? He was overcome with the curious desire to touch it, to find out for himself. She had fathomlessly dark eyes, deep dark pools that trapped the gazer and didn’t let him go. The way she moved suggested that she might have been a dancer, or an angel, or at the very least a princess. Her footsteps were light and silent, and she moved with a grace that he had never witnessed upon the battlefield.

She… moved him. Just watching her, he felt funny… _different_. Like nothing else mattered. Like the skies had opened up and deposited her upon this earth just to distract him from his hassles, to remind him that, no matter how many people get blown to bits on a battlefield, or how many brothers one lost in a war, there was still goodness in it worth fighting for. She instilled in him a sense that something waited for him when this war was over. She was so sublimely out of place out here that he found he couldn’t look away. He didn’t _want_ to look away. Every movement at the corners of her mouth, every graceful twist of the wrist as she worked, and the way her gaze slid over toward him, seriously calm and observant as she checked to make sure he was well, _fascinated_ him. They were the barest, most tantalizing hints as to the woman she actually was, and he needed _more_.

“Who are you?” he asked for the millionth time. He wasn’t even really asking her anymore, for he knew quite well that she would refuse to answer the question, as she had every time he had asked. Nonetheless, the words blurted from his traitorous lips more times than he could count, simply because he _needed_ to know.

“No names,” she repeated, not looking, spooning whatever she was making into a wooden bowl. She was growing irritated with the question, even if he couldn’t help himself.

“No names,” he parroted. “Where did you learn to cook, then?” he asked, accepting a bowl of camp stew. It smelled heavenly, and his stomach roared in appreciation.

“I’d love to tell you something adorable like ‘my mother taught me,’” she offered with a shrug, “but the truth is less enthralling.” She spooned a bowl for herself and sat across from him. “I taught myself.”

His taste buds exploded with flavors the moment the spoon crossed the threshold of his lips. His eyes rolled back into his head in ecstasy, and his mind hummed. _Divine!_ “Taught yourself?” he breathed incredulously. “How?”

She smiled shyly as she nibbled at her own stew. “I read, sometimes, and I found some useful knowledge in a book somewhere.”

Madara tucked that cherished bit of information away in his memories, for it was a clue to her identity. If she knew how to read, she must have come from one of the more noble families of their time. Women seldom learned to read otherwise. “This stew is very good,” he said, his eyes never leaving her beauty as he ate. He watched the simple motion of spoon to lips, mesmerized. She sat with all the self-assurance of a queen, knees together, kimono tucked neatly beneath her. Her back was perfectly straight, hair immaculately pieced together, composure flawless. She had to be a princess, he decided, as he began to imagine a circlet of gold upon her head.

“You’re staring,” she quietly observed, unmoved.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her honestly and without hesitation. “I can’t help it."

She didn’t seem, at first, to have realized that she was smiling. Madara had seen it, though, and it was marvelous. A tint of rose colored her cheeks and the curve of her lips revealed tiny dimples that literally took his breath away. Every woman he had ever seen had been clad in armor or held themselves with the sloppy carriage of a plain civilian. She was different, in every way. He remembered the softness of her hands, surmising that she must not be a Shinobi. For the brief time that he had seen her body—every exquisite, ivory inch of it—he could recall that she was unmarred by any evidence of wounding.

“What is your profession?” he found himself asking.

She set the bowl down gently and thought about it, and Madara got the distinct sense that she was considering whether or not it would be too much information. “I don’t have one,” she confessed.

He poked around at his stew, trying not to sound overly interested in the answer to his next question. “Someone’s wife, then?” he asked, holding a breath.

She paused. “No,” she replied with a small, secretive smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

His curiosity was piqued. What kind of person had no profession? “What do you do in your free time, then?” he asked, finishing off his stew. He wanted to imagine it, whatever it was.

“I… learn things,” she offered with a hesitant shrug. “I read.”

He set the bowl aside and forgot about it, lowering himself to the ground and propping himself up with one elbow. “You don’t like questions,” he observed.

“You’re making me uncomfortable,” she said breathlessly, looking away. The bowl of stew lay forgotten between her hands, fingertips worrying at the rim of it. He watched her fingertips, remembering them within his grasp.

Watching her fidget with the rim of her bowl stirred a sense of peace, and he was captivated. “Why?” he asked, locked onto her motions.

Her shoulders hitched in a delicate shrug, but she kept her gaze averted. The blush returned. “You keep staring,” she breathed nervously.

His eyebrow quirked. “Are you not used to people staring at you?” he wondered aloud.

“Of course not!” she replied instantly.

“I wonder why?” He scratched at his chin, his eyes rolling skyward in thought. She didn’t answer. He lowered his eyes and peeked at her from beneath hooded eyelids. Then he caught _her_ staring. The discovery sent an unfamiliar thrill coursing through his veins. “I can’t promise I’ll stop staring,” he told her helplessly. “The truth of the matter is that you’re the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.” He smiled as the flushness in her cheeks deepened. 

It dawned on him in that moment that he was flirting. How positively  _exciting_. When he’d met her, he was only telling her the truth, enthralled by what that truth was, intrigued by the things he was learning. When he realized that he was actively trying to make her like him, his heart skipped a beat of its own. _This_ was new.

Stubbornly, she refused to look at him. “Do you want any more food?” she asked him, changing the subject.

“No,” he responded, staring again. “That’s not what I want.” He willed her to see the look in his eyes, tried to fill them up with desire, wanting her to play, too.

“What do you—“ She stopped herself from asking the question, perhaps sensing his hinted meaning and biting her lip to keep the words in. Abruptly she laughed. “You’re incorrigible,” she said instead.

Madara hid his smile, for she wasn’t yet even aware that the serene exterior she projected had crumbled the moment she’d laughed at his suggestion. He toyed with a cushion of moss that was growing near his elbow. “Don’t you want to know anything about me?” he asked her, feeling a little self conscious. No one had ever wanted to know him before, not that he'd ever particularly cared to know others, either. Despite that, he wanted her to know him, because he wanted to know everything about her, too. 

She arched one eyebrow and stared before answering, simply, “No.”

He was surprised that the answer had stung him, but he felt his mood darken at that single, short word. He frowned and his eyes lowered, fixing on a point on the ground in front of him, and he felt his mind haze over with a dark fog of unhappiness. Perhaps his inexperience had claimed him, then, for he had been so _sure_ …

...why couldn’t he breathe properly?

Startlingly, though, she seemed to sense that something was amiss. “I’ve upset you,” she observed. He didn’t answer right away, fighting the knot in his throat. The thought that she had upset him seemed to affect her deeply, though, for she abandoned her own stew and went to sit next to him. He sucked in a breath, shoulders involuntarily tensed from her closeness. He desperately wanted her fingers upon his skin again, and found himself subconsciously leaning into the line of her body to invite her touch. Apparently oblivious, she sighed. “I didn’t mean that I don’t... _desire_ to know more,” she admitted carefully, “only that it is... _unwise_... to know anything at all.”

Hope flared in his breast. He cautiously peeked at her from beneath his brow. The naked concern in the arch of her brow and the crease of her eyes tugged at his heart. His heart began to pound, and he breathed in the scent of her: earthy and sweet, just like the princess he imagined, haunting the forest with glimpses of painful beauty. “I know,” he murmured, disconnected from the conversation entirely. He wanted to kiss her. _Badly_. He had never wanted to kiss anyone before.

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he nearly wept with relief. An easy smile graced her face, as if it belonged there. “Good. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

His head tipped over onto her hand, content, and her smile slipped. She jerked her hand back as if the contact burned, her expression growing troubled. And yet, she didn’t leave. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I couldn’t help it.” He wanted to know what she was thinking. What was she thinking?

_What are you thinking?_

“It’s better if you don’t touch me again,” she whispered breathlessly, her eyes falling away from his gaze to stare at his mouth. At his lips.

The change in atmosphere pleased him, for he had seen where her eyes had landed. He licked his lips. “I can’t be sure, but I’m certain that it’s not.” Crackling electricity fizzed between them like a magic spell. Madara was not used to situations beyond his control, but when the inescapable tide of the power between them was roused, his first instinct was to fling himself at its mercy and beg for joy. This close, their bodies barely touching and the faint memory of her hand on his shoulder, he finally deciphered precisely what was happening to him. Whether it made any sense, whether there was any wisdom in it at all, he _wanted_ her. _All_ of her, in this moment and whenever he wanted in the future, forever. He leaned in, hoping she felt it, too.

But he was dismayed when she stood suddenly and returned to her spot by the fire without comment. Her cheeks were red, embarrassed, and suddenly her stew was more interesting than himself.

Somehow, though, he knew. She _had_ felt it, too. It had frightened her, as it had thrilled him, to feel something thrilling and unfamiliar. He could be patient, when he wanted something, for he was a hunter, a conqueror, and there were times when bait was more effective than seeking a frightened thing for yourself. And so, to restore the peace between them because she was spooked, he held out his bowl. “I think I’ll have some more,” he said quietly.

Her eyes darted towards his and away, but he saw it all in that one glance, and knew he had guessed correctly. Those dark eyes, lit by the orange glow of the fire, were smoldering coals, and behind them, a fire was banked that would make any Uchiha a storm of envy. Silently, she spooned more stew into the bowl and handed it back to him, avoiding eye contact. Every now and again, though, those living embers in her eyes found him again, and every time they did he felt the stroke of warmth. She wanted him, too. She just wasn’t sure what to do about it yet.

And so, he enjoyed his stew and watched her, unabashed about his staring even as she seemed frightened of hers. Beyond the circle of the flames between them, a bloody, brutal war was bleeding the land, and he cared not at all. He had found his point of brightness, a dream he’d never dared to have, and he wasn’t going to let it go without a fight. “I have to call you something,” he offered with a shrug. 'Woman' just didn't convey the proper amount of respect.

Her eyelashes flickered, considering. With a sigh, she relented. “Very well, you may call me Miyu.”

“Perfect,” he accepted with a smile. It wasn’t her real name, but it would suffice for now. “Then you can call me Masaru.”

She smiled. “It suits you.” And that it did, for he very much intended to win in this. Though she spent much time stirring and staring into her stew, she hardly looked up from it nor attempted to eat any of it. She was distracted, and he liked her that way.

“May I ask how you found me?” he asked conversationally, just as distracted from his refilled bowl as she was.

Her shoulders sagged, defeated. “All of your questions,” she trilled with exasperation, though her fresh tone held none of her earlier irritation and every ounce of her present nervousness.

He grinned. “I told you, I can’t help it. You’re fascinating.”

“I don’t understand why,” she grumbled. “My father always said I was dull.”

Madara’s eyes twitched. “Then your father is a fool, and I’m not sorry to say it.” And he would gladly murder the man if she so much as suggested it.

“You’re sweet,” she relinquished with a softer smile. “To answer your question, this time,” she added with a brighter smile, “someone asked me to.”

Startled, he leaned forward. “Who?” he asked before he had thought better of it. Of course she would not tell him. To do so would breach their unwelcome laws of anonymity.

Confirming his suspicions, she shook her head and favored him with a glance. “I cannot say, mostly because I don’t know. I didn’t recognize him.”

His soul burned with a hundred questions. Who had asked that he be spared? His brother? His father? Surely not…? No, that was impossible. Hashirama, for all his softhearted mercy, would not have let him live if he was already dying. That was basically the same thing as murdering his clan on his own. Why was he brought here instead of healed there? Whose side was she on? Who had asked her to look after him? Who was she? Was Izuna okay? Who won the battle? But all of the questions died in his mouth when he realized that, although he wanted to know, he didn’t want to know as badly as he wanted to know… “ _Who are you,_ Miyu?”

She laughed, and he felt his heart flutter instantly at the sound. “There you go again,” she chuckled fondly, “asking me that question I still won’t answer. Finish your stew, _Masaru,”_ she commanded. 

He was starving, but his hunger was no longer for the food in his hands. She wasn’t ready, though, not yet. And so, he put the spoon to his lips and did as she bid.

 

 


	5. Butterflies

The slow way in which ‘Masaru’ picked at his food distressed Mito. She peeked at him every now and then, observing with what she told herself was clinical interest in how slowly he was eating. Her brain offered up reasons, like, _perhaps his ribs are hurting and he can’t eat. Perhaps his brain is malfunctioning from the blow to the head. Maybe he’s too weak to eat, or simply doesn’t like the food._ In a deeper, more visceral place within her, though, she recognized that it wasn’t that she was worried about his pace, it was that she couldn’t stop watching him. Marriage wouldn’t be so bad, she surmised, if she could spend some of her time in the company of one such as this. Masaru was polite and friendly, and there was an enthralling intensity about him that drew her in. So when she was watching him eat, she experienced a storm of feelings: false concern for his well being, mute fascination at the man who wouldn’t stop staring at her, and fear of what it all might mean.

For ‘Masaru’ surely wasn’t his true name, just as Miyu wasn’t hers, and Masaru could be anyone. In a world ravaged by the horrors of war, she wasn’t sure who her friends should be. Was she to be aligned with the magnificent Senju clan, or fall in with one of their smaller allied clans? After all, the busy nature of the larger warring clans sounded exhausting to one who preferred the quiet unobtrusive qualities of nature. Then again, perhaps he belonged to the Hyuuga, whose noble traditions might appeal to her father. He might also belong to the mighty Uchiha clan, whose power rivaled the Senju, though it was said that they ate children and burned people alive. She wrinkled her nose at that thought. Masaru didn’t seem like that kind.

She could always ask… but to do so would breach her personal code, for she did not wish to become attached to anyone that might die in this war. She cared too much, too deeply, for her patients. She had learned that early on. When she had first started healing the dying warriors of the Senju clan, she had spent time with the Shinobi, inquiring their names and from where they had come, sharing meals and jokes and stories of kinder times. There was a very dark period in that first year when so many had died, and she had burned through her chakra within moments of attempting treatment, simply because she did not wish to see her friends die. 

It was since then that she had decided _no more_. If she denied to look too closely into their faces, ignored their attempts to grow close to her, and avoided learning their names, she could remain apart. Those that died were now anonymous. It was a cold way to handle the situation, but for the past two years, it had been working, though there were still those that refused to be denied. Masaru was one, but instinctively, she knew that he already mattered too much. Knowing his name would only slay her if he died while she was the one attempting to heal him.

With a sigh of frustration, she pushed the thoughts from her head. Unless she asked, there was no telling who Masaru was, or from which clan he had hailed. She had never studied the clans, though she had always intended to. It was a topic her father had insisted upon, and so she’d placed it lowest on her list of priorities. After all, if her father thought that the topic was important, it would displease him if she thought that it wasn’t.

And thinking of her father reminded her why she was here in the first place, and that troubled her even more. She had run away from home to avoid the pressures of her father trying to line up a suitable husband. She had been studying chakra and the healing arts, and he found it to be a foolish pursuit. If it were up to him, she would know only the types of skills that would be useful to her husband, and her individual hobbies would be discouraged. Although Mito was convinced of the usefulness of healing jutsu, her father had discredited it as a sacrilege to rob the gods of the souls that they had marked for themselves. In his eyes, if it was time for a person to die, then you _let them_ die.

Attempting to convince him that war was different had only frayed their relationship further. How could she make him understand that war was not the work of the gods? How was she to explain that the wounds of a battle were not the call of the gods calling their children home? The answer was that she couldn’t, so she’d studied her chakra and the few notes on medical jutsu that she could find, right up until the moment her father had found her out and burned her texts.

She had decided definitively that she hated him, then.

Uzushiogakure was an island nation, cut off from the rest of the world by a raging sea besieged by whirlpools. Waiting for another such text to fall into her hands would see her married and aged to uselessness. If she wanted to learn, if she wanted to heal, she would need to leave. It had been a tough decision; the whirlpools were dangerous, and the wrath of her father was the most frightening obstacle she had ever encountered. She had been sheltered and felt naive and nervous. To risk his ire for her own daunting fantasy seemed like a mark of insanity.

Yet, she had done it. She’d stolen one of the ships in the harbor and risked her fool neck to cross the broad expanse of roiling waves. Either she was a born sailor or a woman blessed with marvelous luck, for her ship had landed on the opposite shore unscathed. Perhaps the gods were with her, after all. She tied up the ship and set out to find her fortune, and now, three years later, she was here. Occasionally, a small party of Shinobi from her homeland came across the Senju army where she had made camp, and she was forced to hide, but they still had been unable to find her. Her father was not an idiot, though, and they would be checking the medical camps, which was why she only offered field treatment, and slept among the soldiers. It would not do for one of the regular medics to call attention to the one among them with red hair.

She glanced back at Masaru. Was this man to be her fate? She caught him staring at her again, but his previous slack jawed appreciation had already morphed into something more; his bright and curious eyes now smoldering with the promise of wild things that made her breath catch. His lips quirked into a smirk that hinted at a new world filled with wondrous abandon, a place of freedom and thrill. When he looked at her, she felt as if he was trying to tell her something. And, as the minutes rattled past, she was increasingly drawn toward knowing what it was that he would say.

Mito gnawed on her lower lip, troubled. All of her life, she had placed each foot carefully, no move wasted. Her lifetime had been sailed with a tiller of logic, reason, and level-headed decision making. Even her panicked flight from her father had been a calculated maneuver, each consequence carefully considered before the choice had been made. Her heart had never beaten so wildly, threatening to yammer its way out of her ribs, as it did now. She’d never felt a deep chasm in the pit of her belly that swallowed her insides within itself and made her feel nauseous and lightheaded at the same time. And all of this, this... storm of sensations... after only knowing him a short time!

Was love a kind of illness, she wondered? She pressed her fist into her belly, trying to quell the unsettling feeling and failing. Her thoughts were racing, trying to work out the logic of what was happening to her, for it had only been a couple of days, and this man had a hold on her. It should not be possible to fall in love so quickly (such a notion was ridiculous), so perhaps she really _was_ ill.

In all her books, love was not something she had read much about. That was a personal defense, for she knew that the concept of love mattered not to her father nor her marriage. She would marry whom he told her to, and she would either love the man or she wouldn’t. Dreaming about it wasn’t going to change anything, so why enlighten herself on the topic of something she may never experience? Uzumaki Mito was nothing, if not practical.

She must have been really distracted, for as she was looking inward and trying to determine the cause of her ailment, a shadow fell over where she was sitting. Masaru was standing before her, his hand held out. He meant for her to grasp his hand so that he could lift her to her feet, but just as badly as she wanted to go to him, she felt she should stubbornly refuse. She stared at his hand, confused and perturbed, asking the question with a lift of her eyebrow and nothing else.

Masaru leaned in slightly, his voice silken and good natured. “You looked sick,” he said to her. “I thought some fresh air might help.” His smile was innocent enough, beckoning, and she found herself ensorcelled.

Her fingers reached tentatively, unsure, and yet even as her brain screamed in alarm, her fingers moved on their own. A strange, fuzzy trance filtered through her veins, and she couldn’t stop. Her fingertips touched the skin of his hand only just, but that tiniest of touches was _electric_. She shivered, amazed, her fingers curling into his reflexively, seeking a hold onto something solid, real.

His smile softened, fingers entwining with hers. “See?” His voice was soft and awed. Then, he tugged languorously, and Mito’s body unrooted from its spot and unfurled, limbs moving of their own accord, unfolding her body from her seat upon the earth to stand before him, one hand caught in his. She swallowed, her nausea returning en force. He jerked on her hand just enough to cause her to stumble forward, and her chest bumped into his just as his free hand snaked around behind her to steady her back. “You feel this too,” he whispered, never phrasing it as a question.

She blinked, too shocked to move, her senses overloaded by the complexity of feelings and sensations of just a few seconds of contact. Amazed, her chin tipped upward, and her gaze snared his, two pairs of dark eyes locked. The intensity of that one look stilled her, and she felt something akin to panic, her skin prickling feverishly hot and icy cold all over. He held her there, unmoving, as if instinctively giving her time to adjust. Her heart thudded, but for a while there was no sound. Then, without a word, he grasped her other hand and placed it over his own heart. Beneath her fingers, his chest beat its own thunderous rhythm. “Me, too,” he told her seriously.

She blinked several times, still wandering in wonderment, but the moment her eyelids flickered upward again, his face tipped down and their lips met. She sucked in a breath of surprise, but the air she received was his. All of the discomfort in her belly bloomed into pure thrill. It was an odd sensation, the meshing of lips, but pleasant, and after a perfunctory trial, she greedily accepted his kiss, breathless and thrown into a whirlwind of emotions from fear to excitement to not caring at all.

For a suspended moment in time, nothing mattered. Her father and his harsh discipline were forgotten. Her voyage across the countryside, trying to repair the damage done by war hungry men, lost. All of her fears, her obstacles, the blocks placed upon her own self confidence fled in a fraction of a second. For that moment, she felt beautiful, appreciated, and _free_ , something for which she might never be able to thank him properly.

She wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but when at last they broke apart, she was amazed to still be standing. She had been certain that her feet were no longer rooted to mortal earth. He still held her, for which she was grateful; if he hadn’t, she might have fallen to her knees in awe. Mito had no idea what to say, and so she opted for laughing nervously and avoiding eye contact.

He laid one hand over the back of her head and pressed her into his embrace and held her like something precious, and she sighed. “You are… an exquisite woman, Miyu,” he said to her.

“You don’t even know me,” she blurted, reeling.

It was his turn to laugh. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you.”

She had to smile, for she could not deny that. Perhaps, though, she could offer him something. “I can’t tell you my name,” she relented. “But I’m nineteen. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. My father is...difficult to endure, so I ran away from home.”

His breathing stilled, processing new information, seemingly impressed that she had shared it. “I had four brothers,” he offered. “But… now I only have one.”

Mito pulled away and looked up at him, moved. “That’s tragic. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

He shrugged, trying to appear strong. “My brother and I are very close,” he continued. “And our father is also hard on us.  We’re at war, after all.” A moment passed. Then, abruptly, he kissed her again, and the agitation that she had felt melted away as they focused only on each other. “Miyu,” he murmured. “I’ve never met anyone like you. Marry me?”

Mito could hardly contain her shock. She felt breathless and wild, and yet wary at the same time. “You hardly know me,” she repeated.

Masaru shook his head, smiling faintly. “It doesn’t matter. I can see it in your grace, your beauty, your compassion and your smile. I’ll have the rest of my life to get to know the details, and I’ll love every moment of it. There can’t be another woman in the world who can compare to you. I want and will want no one else.” He rubbed her hands between his own, pleading with his eyes. “Miyu,” he added fiercely, excitement in his voice, “destiny has brought us together. You can feel it, as can I. Denying this is to deny yourself. _Live_ in this moment. _Embrace_ it. _Rejoice_.”

She opened and closed her mouth several times, at a loss for words. Hadn’t she already entertained that very notion herself? All of her problems with her father would be instantly solved; she would no longer need to find a husband nor hide her aspirations. Too, he was handsome and kind, and had awakened a need in her she didn’t know she had. “I… I’m not sure what to say,” she breathed.

“You will want for nothing, I promise,” he insisted. “Just say you will.”

It appeared his spell was still upon her, she thought, shaking her head incredulously, yet feeling oddly giddy. Her streak of wickedness would continue, it seemed. “Very well. I accept.” The moment the words left her lips, she felt a veil of peace and happiness settle over her like an aura. Another logical decision made, and one that would bring her joy. The first decision she had made for herself was to leave the Whirlpool Village, and it had been the best one she had ever made. If this was to be her second major decision, odds were good that it would be just as perfect.

Masaru claimed another kiss, intoxicating her. In the midst of another whirlpool, she was lifted off her feet and carried. She giggled, unsure of what was happening but with all of her inhibitions far removed. There was magic in this place, between them, and she was not foolish enough to stop it. Whatever was happening between her and this man was past her, above her, beyond the scope of her imagination, and she was powerless to resist, nor did she have that desire. Despite her father’s lessons in modesty, despite being conditioned to believe her virginity was her most precious possession, she gave it away. In her heart, she was already married to this man, and it mattered not.

 

 


	6. Promise

Madara was fascinated by how easily the motions of love had come. He had never been with a woman before, but he found that it was not so difficult as matters of war. War was a game of strategy, with predetermined movements chosen based on situations, where as love was an art form dictated by sighs and touches. He loved her, and in loving her he had learned how to please her best. When she gasped, he reacted, and when she sighed he moved with her, eager to please.

It was so unlike war that Madara was filled with a kind of wonder. He had spent his entire life training his body for fighting and killing, after all. Rough spun muscle was not worthy of worshipping the soft skin of women, and yet, Miyu seemed to enjoy it anyway. He had never thought that one could find such comfort in the touch of another, but he had craved her from the moment he had seen her, and craved her again even now, though she lay asleep.

Tucked into the crook of his arm, Miyu dozed sleepily. He could die like this, he mused, and die happy. _My wife,_ he thought with a smile. It had all happened so quickly... but he held no regrets. In his arms lay something precious that was entirely his, unspoiled by another and completely devoted to him. He had never truly lived until this moment, and knew without a doubt that he’d feel most alive when he was with her. It was an amazing feeling. Why was it that no one had seen fit to tell him of the wonders of love?

_Because we’re at war._

The sudden unwelcome thought was sobering. Though he had pushed his father and brother, and the rest of his clan too, from his mind, he couldn’t completely abandon them. Now that he had gotten all he could from Miyu—for now, he vowed, for he had barely begun to enjoy her as thoroughly as he wished—he had some time to himself and his own thoughts. The last he could remember was the explosion of their gambit on the battlefield. That was at least a few days ago. Had everyone made it to safety before the blast?

_Was Izuna--?_

He chewed his lip with concern, but tried to talk himself out of his worry. Of course Izuna was alright. They had been training together, hadn’t they? Izuna was _strong_. Already, though, he missed his brother, and knew he would need to return to his family as soon as he was able. They needed him; if anyone began to believe that he was dead, it could change everything. Thinking of Izuna as Tajima’s heir made his stomach turn; Izuna was smarter than he was strong. Tajima was too hard on him. Taking Tajima’s aggression had been Madara’s duty to his brother as the elder. Until Tajima was dead, Madara needed to be Izuna’s shield, lest his bright spirit be snuffed out.

Tajima, being Tajima, had surely made it out alive. He would have made sure he was far from the blast before the tags detonated, but he wouldn’t have hesitated to risk his younger son if he thought it was necessary. The thought made Madara angry. There was little love lost between father and son; the day the old man died couldn’t come fast enough. Love his father he might, but Madara understood very well that Tajima was no good for their clan. Perhaps in his youth he might have been, but long years of fighting and the loss of too many sons had embittered him, and he wielded the Uchiha clan like a tool for his vengeance, and whether or not his pawns ceased breathing didn’t seem to be of much import to him.

And Hashirama?

His mind stilled. Even now, he wasn’t sure how he felt about his long ago friend. The Uchiha had yet to soundly defeat the young clan leader in battle, though Madara himself had made it a priority. Izuna would never be safe so long as the Senju continued to dominate. Hashirama might be holding back for Madara’s sake, but he did not feel such attachments toward Madara’s little brother. He got the feeling that Hashirama was only playing with his food, trying to tell the Uchiha that the Senju could win at any time if they truly wanted to. Madara had faced Hashirama in battle countless times, and the memory of their katana strikes were still fresh enough; Hashirama was always holding back, as if waiting for the Uchiha to surrender, rather than trying to defeat them at all.

The thought annoyed him. Madara was competitive, and nothing was more infuriating than deliberate restraint of the efforts against him. The moment his father was buried, he vowed, he would twist the Senju into submission. He _would_ face his rival in combat for the last time, and he _would_ emerge the victor. Hashirama would fall to the might of the Uchiha and submit his clan to their mercy, and then this damnable war would be over. 

He thought about their dream of starting a village together, joining Senju and Uchiha and ending all the fighting, setting an example of compromise and forgiveness. _A dream only,_ he thought sadly. _Completely impossible._ Senju and Uchiha would never be able to agree on anything. Forgiveness was not even in the realm of possibility, not as long as each side could remember the loss of all those that they loved.

Victory and submission would have to be it.

He breathed a deep sigh of heady ambition and peeked over at his new lover. A sweet, angelic smile rested upon her lips. She was the very picture of godliness; naked and lovely, a thin sheen of sweat adding radiance to her flawless skin, scarlet tresses mussed and in disarray. He hadn’t imagined that she could be any prettier than she already was, but he liked her better this way, he decided. Oh, the things that he had done to her to put that sweet, sweet smile upon her lips! He couldn’t help but smile, too. With her by his side, he felt as if he was filled with the strength to do anything, even bring the mighty Senju to their knees.

 _I_ will _defeat Hashirama,_ he vowed.

He would need to be perfect to beat Hashirama. Perhaps once, back when they had been friends, they might have been equal in all things. However, since the sudden death of Senju Butsuma, Hashirama had become clan chief and granted complete freedom. His army operated by his own design, arranged according to strength and experience. He spent his free time developing beautiful, new, and terrifying jutsu. And, too, he had the full support of Senju Tobirama, who was close to his equal as well and hailed as a genius the world over for developing novel jutsu of all natures. Both were smart and careful tacticians, and in cooperation, nigh unstoppable. This war was broiling in the palm of Hashirama’s hand, soldiers dancing to his personal melody, and there was nothing Madara could do about it.

Of course, Madara knew Hashirama better than anyone. They had confessed their deepest fears and dreamed their tallest dreams together. If anyone would ever be able to outsmart Senju Hashirama and Senju Tobirama, it was Uchiha Madara and Uchiha Izuna. They were the perfect counterpart. Unfortunately, trying to tell his father what to do only wasted the precious time that was needed to act, so he’d mostly just kept mum to avoid the hassle. The best he could do for now was agree with everything Tajima said and keep working with Izuna. It was only a matter of time before Tajima died; he had already outlasted the typical life expectancy of their era. Age and decay would dull his wits and reflexes, and determined steel and chakra would do the rest.

Miyu stirred beside him, thrilling his senses to life. Everything about her enthralled him, from the angle of her chin to the red of her hair to the flush of her cheeks as he loved her. He grazed her shoulder with one lazily trailing finger, eliciting her eyelids to flutter open. She saw him and smiled, blushing shyly as the memories of what they had done returned to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said to her.

She blinked. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m sorry.”

His lips quirked. “Don’t be. I’m sorry I tired you out.”

“Don’t be,” she copied. “I never waste my energy.” She snuggled in closer, and they held each other in comfortable silence for several minutes. “You’ll need to go soon,” she said finally, echoing his earlier thoughts.

“Yes,” he confirmed, unhappy about it. Remembering his family and his obligations had reminded him of how dangerous of a life he truly led. He wasn’t able to take her with him. Not yet.

Despite that, she asked the very question he’d been dreading since she had drifted off to sleep. “Can I come with you?” she asked, her voice strained with longing.

He bit his lip and wanted to say yes, for nothing would please him more... yet he couldn’t. She sensed it, and stopped breathing for only a moment, just long enough to tell him she was clearly grumpy about it. “It isn’t safe...” he began hesitantly.

She bristled. “I’m _not_ weak,” she countered, ready to plead her case.

He smiled. No, she surely wasn’t. Soft and gentle she might seem, but Madara knew that there was steel embedded in her spine, and he longed for the day that he could coax it out of her. “I know that, sweetheart, but... it’s my father.” He realized of a sudden that there wasn’t a simple way to explain precisely without giving something personal away, and they had grudgingly agreed that the less they knew, the better. He paused, considering the consequences. But, if she was to be his wife, it would be within her right to know beforehand. He took a deep breath. “My father is a clan leader,” he admitted at last, careful not to name which one. She emitted a soft gasp. “He will use every tool at his disposal for purposes that suit his own whims and no one else’s. Either he will send you into dangerous situations and risk your death, or he will use you to control me. I can’t risk it. I won’t allow any harm to come to you.”

She breathed in and out a few times, considering his words. She thought about it a long time, trying to see a way around the circumstances, but offered no suggestion. “Clan leader,” she murmured to herself finally, surprised.

“Yeah.”

She kissed his chest. “So what do we do, then?”

He felt her heart pounding against his ribs, and felt awful that he had given her cause to fear. But what to do indeed? “I’ll think of something,” he answered noncommittally. He felt her sigh, accepting his answer but not comfortable with it, and decided to distract her. So, he tugged her face toward his and kiss her lips, and they tipped into a reprisal of their previous act.

* * *

 

Late into the evening, he came up with a plan. “I’ll come find you,” he promised fervently. “I will scour the earth until I do, no matter where you are.”

She snorted, amused. “How are you supposed to find me, if I can’t tell you who I am?”

He cupped her chin fiercely and held her gaze, peering into the windows of her soul. They were such lovely dark eyes, like an Uchiha but more innocent, full of trust and admiration. “Because this is true love,” he told her seriously. “A love such as ours comes once in a generation. I love you, whoever you are. I will find you. That I can promise. Do you trust me?”

She smiled briefly, shakily. “Yes.”

He kissed her again, trying to absorb all of her fears into himself. The truth was that he had no idea how he was supposed to find her again, only that he really would tear the earth apart until he did. He’d kidnap every sensor in every clan across the globe until she turned up, and he meant it, too.

“Then our paths will cross again. I will find you,” he promised, breaking away for just long enough to say it. He framed her face between his hands and gazed upon her earnestly. “On my soul, I swear it.”

She nodded, and then they fell into each other another time. Hands roamed with a mission in mind, molding flesh and creating memories. Neither one intended to let their love escape them, but regardless, they knew their time was limited. If this was to be their lifetime’s worth of stolen moments, they would make them worth it. Fingers scrabbled over backs and shoulders, dug into the firm flesh of muscle so hard as to bruise.

In this, Madara learned that sometimes love _can be_ a lot like war. Her nails clawed at the muscles in his shoulders, and his teeth clamped down on the sensitive flesh between breast and chin. She snarled, he slammed her wrists into the ground, and she snapped her teeth at him, caught up in feral need. When she tried to wriggle her wrists free, he shocked her to the core, eliciting a sharp gasp and complete compliance. Though they fought each other for dominance, much of the time she simply yielded and he _loved it._ He gripped her hips roughly, thumbs and fingertips gouging into unmarred skin, and she gasped aloud, delicate hands grasping into the moss at her sides as if they might hold her to the mortal plane. He leaned over her body with his own, nipping a trail from breast to ear, leaving angry red marks in his wake. Occasionally her hands left the moss unbidden to tangle in his hair, curling reflexively and causing his scalp pain. He hissed in response, a charge of energy flashing through his entire body each time.

This time, when he took her, every fierce thrust made them both feel newmade. She was his, body and soul, and he would never, ever let her go. Even without the formal ceremony, his Miyu was his wife now and forever, and her name no longer mattered. Her soul was branded, and his belonged to her, and he felt reaffirmed with every rough jerk of his hips that he would brutally kill anyone and everyone who sought to change that.

With every shuddering exhalation and cry of a name that he had chosen for himself (“victory, victory”), he knew she was giving him permission to do just that. From this day until the end of days, she had trusted him to protect her, to love her and cherish her, and to one day father their children. Knowing that was powerful and lent him strength. It changed him into something better than he ever was before. He needed to be even better than he had in the past, to make her proud of him. He would be worthy of her belief in him. 

As they lay quietly, he stroked the hair that was indeed just as soft as he had first imagined, happy and filled with hope. “I love you,” he declared, his lips brushing her ear.

“I love you,” she returned in earnest, placing a tender kiss at just the corner of his lips. His smile broadened, lit from within by her love for him.

Against the world’s unfathomable odds, they had found each other. Soon, they would be parted, but Madara would brave the odds one more time to find her, no matter where she went. “Promise me you’ll wait for me.” Leaving her terrified him. The world was torn by war. Anything could happen.

Though he certainly did not intend to die. Not until he had truly lived.

“Of course I will,” she promised. “Forever, if I must.”

 

 


	7. Clarion

“Your wounds are bleeding,” she fussed, picking at his bandages. The fragile skin over his burns had ruptured during their feverish time together, and blood and pus seeped through the wrapping. Unfortunately, she hadn’t brought any more bandages, which meant she would have to heal him with chakra instead. It couldn’t be helped.

“It will heal,” he assured her, ignoring the attention to his wounds. He was more just preoccupied with watching her flit about with concern; no one had ever cared for him as much as she had, and the thought of it brought him peace. At least if he had to walk willingly back to an era of warmongering, he could go back feeling warm within.

Naked, tangled in the folds of her kimono—which was rapidly deteriorating, thanks to her recent treatment of it—Mito was experiencing bliss. She had never imagined that making love could make a person feel so… complete. Now, sated and awestruck, she felt as if she had acquired life’s greatest gift. Far from her previous belief that giving herself to a man would make her feel diminished or dirtied, Mito instead felt enhanced and enlivened. Laying with Masaru had _improved_ her somehow. All of her life had perpetuated one, glaring lie, for there was no shame in what they had done, and she would treasure that forever.

However, his wounds weren’t quite healed, and now that he had ruptured the fragile, healing skin, Mito felt like a bad medic. She had told him to rest and recuperate, and then had been instrumental in making him move around. _Although..._ she blushed at the memory, regret draining away. Even if she had made him aggravate his injuries, she would not wish to take it back for any price.

Still, though...

She pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning on one hand as she prepared to heal him. It would drain her chakra near to empty--for her undeveloped reserves had little capacity--but she felt as if she owed him. She had disrupted the healing process; it was only right that she make up for it by speeding it back up. Resolute, she infused her other hand with chakra, waves of red hair falling over her shoulder as her concentration shifted toward the task at hand.

“You’re so beautiful,” Masaru marveled, running fingers through her hair. She smiled only briefly, already too focused on her work. The green glow emanated from her hand. Masaru looked between her eerily glowing hand and the expression on her face. Then, figuring out what she intended to do, he sat up as well, watching carefully. “Where did you learn that?” he asked her curiously, intrigued by the technique.

“A book,” she replied with a shrug. “My family’s librarian liked to collect rare and expensive texts.”

“Is that the hobby of people with money?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “To buy things because they are expensive?”

“Basically,” she confirmed.

“Must be nice,” he continued, “when the hardest decision of one’s day is which expensive book to buy next.” He must have been comparing such a thing to the decisions of a warrior; choices such as those too often affected who lived and who died, and Mito had never envied the Shinobi that.

She didn’t disagree with him, though; the spending habits of the Uzumaki were atrocious. However, Arata’s habit of buying expensive books had helped her in innumerable ways. “I did get to learn things from books that I wouldn’t have otherwise,” she reminded him, “like how to heal your wounds.” She laid her hands on him, pushing chakra into his body. There wasn’t much left to heal; the wound in his thigh was already safely closed, and the burns were mostly superficial. His skin had burned off from the blast, but it had been a rapid burn. The only reason it was bleeding was because it had no cover to keep it in. Simple enough.

He watched her, transfixed, as she forced the cells to divide rapidly, replacing the skin he had lost with his own new cells. “How does it work?” he asked once she was finished, running unbroken fingertips over unmarked skin, curiously inspecting her handiwork. “It looks brand new.”

She smiled, pleased with herself and enjoying the praise. “Chakra is the energy of life. Shinobi a long time ago learned that they could use it to coax the body’s mechanics to work in overdrive. Basically, the chakra speeds up the body’s own natural process to make cells divide. You’re healed just like you would have healed on your own, only much faster.”

“Marvelous.” His hand dropped, and he looked at her seriously. “Can you teach me?”

She blushed shyly and wrung her hands, embarrassed. “I’ve only just learned myself,” she dodged. “You would be better served learning from a trained professional. I’ve no talent for teaching...” Actually, she was terrified of being put on the spot. Her lover was powerful and so self-assured… even _knowing_ that she had a skill that he did not made her feel self-conscious. If she tried to lecture him, it would only make her feel as if she were insulting him, whether that was the truth or not.

He stroked her shoulder, sensing her distress and pleading with her not to fret. “Don’t worry about it,” he reassured her. “My clan has its own medics. There are other things I need to learn anyway. Besides, I like it better when you heal me. It would be a shame to have to heal myself.”

“It would be smarter if you knew how to do it yourself,” she grumbled wryly.

He grinned. “Probably, but then I wouldn’t need you to do it for me.” They shared a smile.

Then, out of nowhere, a horn call sounded. It was one, long, drawn out howl, clear and deep. Masaru’s face jerked skyward, the color blanching from it, his smile gone. In its place was a dispirited scowl. He looked away and pulled in toward himself, holding his knees to his chest.

“You have to go, don’t you?” she asked, watching his reaction. She glanced worriedly at his head; she had been able to heal the burn scars, but she wasn’t comfortable digging into people’s brains just yet. The concussion he had suffered might still present a problem, and if he left she’d never know.

He hesitated, not wanting to speak. When the word fell from his lips, it was devoid of all emotion. “Yes.”

Dread pooled in her belly. She had known that he would eventually have to return, but she had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon as this. They’d only just begun to enjoy each other. “It’s okay,” she assured him, not really feeling it. “I’ll be fine. Just don’t forget your—“

Her words were cut off as his mouth smashed into hers, desperately wanting. His tongue speared into her mouth, claiming, consuming, burning them both inside and out. She fell backward, dragging him with her by the shoulders. How easy it was to fall back into each other’s arms, to push the world aside and give in to the throes of passion.

“I don’t want to go,” he hissed into her ear as her arms wrapped around his neck.

She kissed his neck, his face, every inch she could put her lips on. “Just promise—“

“I promise,” he vowed. “Not even death could keep me from you.”

* * *

 

They walked back to the place where she had found him in tragic silence. There was nothing left to be said; their time together was ending, and a simple farewell didn’t seem adequate to say all that was needed. Silence was much better, punctuated occasionally by a small smile for reassurance. Hand in hand, they found their way back to the battleground.

Madara sucked in a breath to see it. The ground had erupted, leaving one long, jagged crater splitting the field in two. There were broken bits of rock and black swatches of thrown earth. Too, here and there were patches of brilliant red, though the bodies that had painted them had already been moved. Untold numbers of Shinobi had died as a result of young Mura’s creation. The destruction was indescribable. Madara felt sick. Being defeated by one stronger than you made you work harder to become stronger. Dying in a fair fight, bested by a Shinobi who was your better, was an honorable way to die. Walking unknowingly into a trap that would instantly snuff out a life and leave nothing for your family to mourn was not a fight; it was a massacre. He was not proud of this victory. There was nothing to be proud _of_.

Mito watched his expression in heavy silence. She knew firsthand how awful the battlefront could be, but the trick that the Uchiha had pulled had been devastatingly effective. Her skills had been needed in far too many places, and to far too much depth, after the explosion had occurred. The memories of agonized cries for a medic would probably haunt her forever. Pieces of people had been nearly as plentiful as bits of rock. She laid a hand on his arm to give him silent support, but he said nothing, only observing with wide eyes.

Then, finally, he embraced her, wrapping strong arms around her slim shoulders. She squeezed him back just as fiercely, pressing her palms into his back and burying her face in his chest. She bit back the tears, but they came anyway. The proximity to death made them long to be alive again, and never had they felt more alive than they had with each other. Either of them could have died in that explosion. It was blind dumb luck that they had survived at all. Seeing the destruction, remembering the moments leading up to the last time they had been here... only served to make them appreciate their time together, and now that time was ending.

There was no more time. He needed to leave.

One final, lingering kiss, and then he strode away toward the damage. He didn’t look back even once, but she didn’t blame him for it. It was hard enough to watch him leave once. She wouldn’t choose to do it again.

Numb and melancholy, she retreated back to the forest. If she watched which direction he went, then she would know on which side he was, and her rule would be broken. She would wait for a while, long enough for him to return to where he came from, and then she would return to the Senju army where she belonged. Even if he was there, too, though, she would not seek him out; he had said that it was not safe, and she trusted his word. He would find her… when the time was right, and not before. She had faith in this. In _him_. She was sad to see him go, but enlivened with a sense of hope, as well. She had something to look forward to, now, when this was all over and behind them.

A reason to survive.

It was probably a good thing that she never spent a whole lot of time trying to get to know the soldiers. It was a professional decision; if she knew their faces and their names, she would never be able to maintain a safe distance from her patients. Emotions were a danger for a medic just as surely as they were a danger for the Shinobi. If she couldn’t keep a clear head, she wouldn’t be able to do her job. Or worse, she might blaze through her chakra too rapidly in a panicked effort to save them, and die herself. She knew, from that first year, that she had wasted more chakra than she should have, trying to save friends that were beyond repair. _Whoever you are, my love, stay safe,_ she pleaded. It would be awful to find him dead or dying on the battlefield now that she had broken her rules of anonymity and seen who he was. Even if she did not know his true name, she knew his face, knew his heart and soul, and they were _beautiful_. She was certain that she would blast through her chakra until there was nothing left, burning herself into cinders, trying to save him. Life in a world that was without him was simply not worth living. _I love you,_ she thought to him, pretending he could feel her words. It gave her some small comfort.

When she finally made it back to the picket lines, Tobirama was waiting for her. _His_ face she _did_ know, for he spent more time among the soldiers than he did among the officers. She had explained to him that she didn’t wish to know anyone, but he had decidedly ignored her request. He did that a lot; when Tobirama decided he was going to do something, he was certain that he was one hundred percent in the right, and there was simply not a force in this world that could tell him otherwise. Sometimes, she envied his strong resolve. “Thank goodness, Uzumaki-san,” he breathed in relief, uncrossing his arms and going to her. “After the explosion… you didn’t return, and I was worried.”

She flashed him a brief smile. She supplied the rest of the explanation for him: “And yet I wasn’t among the bodies, so you waited?” Tobirama wasn’t a fool, and had an excruciating eye for detail. Since one of their number was not accounted for, he would wait, even if the entire army was in danger, until she was found, dead or alive. “What if I had deserted?”

“You wouldn’t,” he said with cool confidence. “You do too much good here, and that pleases you.” He paused, waiting, but when she didn’t say anything else, he had to ask. “Where have you been? It’s been _days_.” His arms crossed again, and she got the distinct impression she was being lectured.

“I sustained an injury,” she lied, “and I hid among the trees until I was well.”

* * *

 

_“Please!” he had shouted at her. “I need you over here!”_

_She looked down at the man she had been healing with dismay. His leg had been severed, and precious blood was leaking far too fast._ Femoral artery, _she reminded herself with sorrow. Even if she poured the rest of her chakra into him, he would die. He couldn’t be helped, and she needed her chakra. “I’m sorry,” she murmured to him, kissing his brow. “Be at peace.”_

_“Don’t leave me,” he begged, grasping her arm, panting. “I don’t want to die.” The desperate look in his eyes was all too familiar. Panic. Despair. So many pairs of eyes had looked at her in that way, right before the light had gone out of them._

_She tugged her sleeve free, quashing emotions as they rose in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, turning to the new voice. “I’m coming!” she called to him, sucking in a fresh lungful of an atmosphere tainted with the coppery sting of spilled blood._

_“This man,” he said, pointing._

_She knelt beside him, not even looking at the one who had spoken. Her eyes were only for the people who needed her, a personal block to keep her from knowing their names and faces. The man in question was unconscious and coated in a sticky layer of blood from head to toe. She did a quick check of the damage, but the outlook was not good. “He’s taken a blow to the head, a deep cut to the thigh, and his skin has nearly all been burned away.”_

_“Can you save him?” came the strained response. “Will he die?”_

_She paused, taking a moment to calculate the cost of chakra versus the chances that he might live with and without her help. Without her help, he was surely a goner. With her help… she might completely deplete the last of her meager chakra and he might still die. One swift glance at the wreckage behind her and she felt a wave of dread. If she spent her chakra now, many others would die. “I can save him,” she answered carefully, “but all of the others will die. I leave the decision to you. Many people’s lives are in your hands.” She wanted to look at his face, to see the war of emotion that played out upon it, but she didn’t. She heard it, though, for he cursed and began pacing, arguing with himself. “You need to decide quickly,” she urged gently. “People are dying, and so is he.”_

_There was a short pause. “I will heal the others,” he then declared grudgingly, as if every word cost him a piece of his soul._

_Her head snapped up in response, surprised. The man that stood there was not one she knew, but then, she knew so few of them. His mouth was twisted with concern, but his expression was determined. A handsome man, and one with the weight of too many responsibilities. She did not envy him._

_He spoke to her again, the clipped tone of command and a decision made. “Take this man and hide him until he is well. Tell no one of this, I beg you. I won’t forget this. And thank you.”_

_She nodded, moving quickly now that the choice was made. She shoved chakra into the thigh wound, for if it bled out on her trek he was dead anyway. Then, with the wound sealed enough so that he wouldn’t bleed to death, she gathered her precious reserve of chakra to enhance her strength, one of the few techniques she knew besides medical ninjutsu, and lifted the man upon her shoulders. She made a quick turn toward the handsome man to tell him not to worry, but he had already moved toward the wounded. Around his hands was the green glow of healing chakra, brightly burning, a testament of his strength. With a quick smile to herself, she was off, hauling her new charge into the cover of the nearby thicket. “You’re one lucky man, whoever you are,” she told him, awestruck. If that man hadn’t arrived when he did, the one over her shoulders wouldn’t have made it._

* * *

 

Tobirama nodded curtly. “I’ve told you before that you should stay with the other medics back at camp and wait for the wounded.” Then, the corner of his lips quirked in a teasing smile. “Yet, I am glad that you don’t. You’re indispensable, Uzumaki-san.” He clapped a hand upon her shoulder. “Get something to eat. And welcome back.”


	8. Legacy

“NII-SAN!” Izuna cried, spotting him first. The lad hurtled in his direction, throwing his arms around his brother's shoulders.

Had he not been healed completely a few hours ago, he might have grunted in pain from the impact. As it was, he endured it fondly. Leaving Miyu behind had gutted him, but he was infinitely relieved to see that Izuna had survived after all. “Good to see you, too,” he grumbled affectionately, returning his embrace.

He released him and stepped back, embarrassed. “I never thought you were dead,” he hurried to explain, not wanting to be seen doubting his older brother. “It’s just that, when you didn’t return…”

He smiled weakly. “I understand. I was wounded, though, that’s all. See? Look, I’m fine.” He spun around slowly to prove his claim.

He frowned. “You should go to Father,” he said, more seriously. “Before he gets some crazy idea to give me your place. _Nobody_ wants that.”

“Yes,” he said unhappily, his smile slipping. Transitioning from Miyu to Tajima so quickly was not high on his list of pleasurable experiences. Nonetheless, it had to be done. “I’m glad you’re well.” What he meant was, _“I’m glad you weren’t killed,”_ and both of them knew it well.

Izuna smiled back. “Only because you trained me,” he replied modestly. “It was a close call. Bloody Senju. If it had been just a few weeks ago, I might have been overpowered, and I wouldn’t have escaped the blast.”

Madara’s lips twisted with distaste. Sometimes he disliked being correct; Tajima would have given the order to detonate even if Izuna had been among the dead, for the simple fact that more Senju would have died than Uchiha. The fact that Madara himself hadn’t escaped the worst of it was pure chance, for his skills were unrivaled, even by Tajima. He should have been far and away by the time the tags had gone off. He thought about the lucky bastard who had sneaked up behind him and put a sword through his leg, and found sick pleasure in remembering how he’d torched him only moments later.

* * *

 

Madara went to where he knew that Tajima was packing up his tent. “Oto-sama,” Madara greeted, standing a short distance away.

His father froze in unhooking the tent from its pole, but didn’t turn. “I was beginning to think maybe you weren’t worth your name after all,” he rumbled, turning to regard him over a shoulder as he wadded up the tent fabric. “Where have you been?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed, pointedly avoiding the topic of the red haired medic who had saved him, in more ways than one. “I’m back now.”

They stared each other down, as if trying to decide the value of an argument. Madara would give no more information than that, though, even if the older man tried to beat it out of him, and Tajima seemed to decide that he didn’t have to know.  “We’re striking camp,” he said tersely after a time, and turned back toward his work.

“I heard the horn,” Madara affirmed. “I’ll tend to my tent. I just wanted to report in first.” His father waved a hand impatiently over his shoulder, dismissing him entirely. Madara was glad to be finished with him. He’d rather be by himself, anyway, for not too long ago, he had left behind the most precious person in his world. The only other that could compare was Izuna. _But Izuna is here, and she is not,_ he reminded himself. _My objective has not changed._

He broke down his tent in record time, relegating it into a small pack that could be slung over his back. As soon as the rest of the Shinobi were packed up, their company would be on the move. A clash with the Senju almost always led to a need to resupply. Hashirama’s forces were relentless. But before that…

Izuna had just finished striking his tent, too, and had been headed toward him. “We have work to do,” Madara told him. He nodded in assent; they both knew. Izuna _had_ almost died. He hadn’t, though, and the knowledge of that was enough to spur them into another training session, for it had demonstrated that their efforts were not in vain. Without preamble, they sprang towards each other. There was no one faster or stronger than Madara among the Uchiha. The only way for Izuna to become his match was to practice against him one-on-one. They were definitely brothers; Izuna was learning rapidly. His brother was exceedingly sharp-witted and perceptive. Madara could not outsmart him, and their physical strength was similar. All that Izuna lacked was a little experience and some muscle tone. Very soon, they would be perfectly matched.

 _I won’t lose you, too,_ Madara thought of his brother.

Protect Izuna. Outlive Tajima. Find Miyu. They were good goals.

* * *

 

“See?” Mura was saying days later, cranking the string back. “If you pull this back and hook it here—“ he demonstrated, “—then you can put the arrow here. You can shoot a lot further. Watch.” He lifted the contraption and fired it, and the arrow went sailing across the clearing to imbed itself into a tree over seventy yards away. Mura set down his new bow and grinned happily.

Madara nodded in appreciation. Tajima didn’t take the lad seriously, but Izuna did. And what Izuna took seriously, Madara took seriously. After all, in no time at all, Mura would be a regular soldier in their company and Madara would be in charge. As commander, Madara would need to know the strengths and weaknesses of everyone in his company, and Mura was expected to fight. “How did you come up with this idea?” he asked, curious as to how Mura’s path of logic operated.

“Well, the bows that everyone uses, they raise up, like this, you know?” He raised his arms as if he was holding a bow aimed at the sky. “You fire and hope it hits somebody, but it’s not very accurate, right?” Madara nodded while Izuna merely waited; he had seen all of this already once. “So I thought, how about a bow that you can actually aim at your target. There’s a spot on it, just there—“ he pointed, “—and if you use it to point at the spot you want to hit, and then allow for the distance you are firing… with practice, you should be good to go.” He grinned again.

Madara crossed his arms and smiled to himself. It was very impressive. “Did you build it?” he asked Izuna. Mura was a bright little brat, it was true, but technical execution would have been difficult for one so small. The tension in the string was dangerously tight, and the crank required significant physical strength to work.

“I did,” Izuna confirmed. “We worked on this one together, even if it was Mura-san’s idea.” He grabbed ahold of the weapon and held it up for Madara to inspect. “It requires a great deal of strength to pull back,” he explained--just as Madara had assumed. He proceeded to show him how to crank it back. “For it to have enough power, it needed to be difficult to set even for an adult.” He handed it to his brother. “Try it.”

“I see,” Madara responded, accepting the new weapon. It was kind of like a regular bow, except that the limbs were crossways instead of vertical. The arrow was shorter, too, and expertly fletched. Fletching had been Mura’s first hobby; he’d been doing it since he was half his current age. Fletching arrows and watching them fly had been what had first gotten Mura interested in weapons in the first place, and archery in general had been his focus. It was an interest that had gradually expanded into the field of long range weaponry, and a hobby that Izuna had carefully cultivated in his young friend, for it was in range weapons that the weaker Shinobi would find sanctuary.

If Uchiha Tajima kept insisting that the so-called expendable infantry were to be used as a shield against the vanguard, then weapons like this had a use. The weak could hold the range weapons and stay safe behind the lines of the strong, and both could deal a significant amount of damage while protecting their numbers.

Madara didn’t often offer friendship, but Mura had his gratitude, for the child had provided his younger brother a means of defense when he had not, and Izuna’s mind had also sharpened as a result. Someday, when Madara led the Uchiha, Izuna would be a better complement to his leadership than Tobirama was for Hashirama.

And then it would be the Senju’s turn to suffer.

* * *

 

He found his father standing in the center of his tent, alone with his map. His usually exaggerated frown was set even deeper into his face. It made his father look years older than he actually was, a man past his prime and denying it. His fingertips were pressed hard into the tabletop, his shoulders tense and raised as he struggled to find meaning in the arrangement of the red and green pieces on his vibrant chessboard. “Madara,” he acknowledged, eyes not leaving his pieces.

“Father,” he returned. He entered a comfortable space for conversation, a few feet away from the map on the opposite side. He set Mura’s weapon down against his leg, sensing that his father was too deep in thought to be bothered just yet. Tajima’s eyes shifted from piece to piece, divining a winning strategy from the silent pawns on the board. He would speak when he was ready, as he always did. Madara both loved and hated his father, for there was a time when Tajima had been a magnificent and honorable warrior, before he had been so obsessed with revenge. Despite that knowledge, Madara found it difficult to blame him. The man had lost three sons to the Senju, and his hatred was an infernal chasm. If anything happened to Izuna--or Miyu--he would probably feel the same.

“Did you know,” he began slowly, “that there was a time when Senju Butsuma and I were as close as brothers?” He sucked at the inside of his cheek, still deep in thought about his board. Madara didn’t answer; long years with his father had taught him that sometimes Tajima simply needed to think aloud. Wisdom could always be found by observing the mistakes of his father, and every rant was a kind of lesson. “He was a foundling, brought into our lives by chance. My mother’s sister took him in, fed him, clothed him, and loved him as a son. We were best friends for several years, he and I. Inseparable. Do you know what happened?” he asked, his glance flickering sideways. 

Madara frowned and shifted on his feet. This was not a story he had heard before, so he said nothing, lest his father cease to tell it, and he _did_ want to know. Instead, he only shook his head slowly. This was the first he had heard of the Senju and Uchiha ever being friends, and he had a private, personal connection to the issue.

“At eight years old, Senju Butsuma learned who we were, and remembered who he was. And he killed my aunt and escaped, back to his own people.” Tajima’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his map, eyes fixated on the green pieces, hating them with every fiber of his being. “I didn’t see him again until after your sister was born.”

Madara’s eyes widened, for he had not even been aware that he had had a sister. He suddenly became much more interested in this story.

Tajima laughed humorlessly. “Yes, you had a sister. I can see you are wondering why you never knew. Ah, well.” His head dropped, hanging from his shoulder blades, nodding as he remembered. “Butsuma’s father kidnapped her as a means to gain leverage against our clan when she was only three, retaliation for the _alleged_ kidnap of his own child. I would have torn the world apart to get her back, but my advisors were having none of it. They were my father’s advisors, and I was new to my role. Uncertain, untested, and their counsel was all that I had. They asked me, ‘would you sacrifice the pride of your clan for one worthless girl?’ Daughters have little value in this world, have you noticed? Having a firstborn daughter instead of a son is seen as a curse... but I loved her nonetheless.” He sighed and retreated from the table, standing straight and trying to appear tall. “It broke my heart, but I did it. I let them kill my little girl, all for the _good of the clan_.” His frown deepened, his jaw grinding with regret, and his voice was cold and toneless, twinged with the age-old ache of a man who had lost everything.

“I saw Butsuma again years later, after _his_ father had died, and _he_ had become the leader of _his_ clan. I had clung to the hope that he and I could work together. We had spent our childhood together, stealing horses, skipping stones, and playing ninja on the plains. He had witnessed the death of my daughter, and foolishly, I believed that he had hurt for me. I proposed a truce, and we met under the white flag to speak of ending all the fighting. I brought your elder brother, Ichiro. You were just a babe at the time, but Ichiro was already ten and _strong_.” He shook his fist, his voice thick with emotions. “I brought him because I wanted him to witness the dawn of a new era, of peace. I wanted him to see that two enemies could become friends, despite it all. And I was so _wrong_.” His eyes hardened, and the tone left his voice. “Butsuma did not trust me, and believed that I had intended to betray him at that meeting, so he beat me to it. They put fifteen arrows in my firstborn son and demanded I pledge the fealty of the Uchiha to the Senju. I barely escaped with my life…” He paused. “But I learned to never trust the Senju again.” 

He stood straighter, the iron back in his spine. His previous signs of aging transformed into something different, and Madara saw it for what it was: experience, the signs of a warrior who had been tempered in blood, sweat, and tears, harder than steel. “You know why I’m telling you this, don’t you?”

He did, but he shook his head anyway.

“I know, even now, that you harbor a hope that someday, you and that Senju boy you friended might make peace, perhaps be friends again, and unite the two clans in harmony. I see how sick this war makes you. I know your heart like I know my own,” he continued, clutching his chest. “You are truly my son, my boy. You _tell yourself_ now--” he stabbed a finger into the map and peered at him intensely, “--that you will do no such thing. You _tell yourself_ that he is the enemy, and if you could only defeat him, you could kill him if you wanted to, though you dream instead of showing mercy, so that he might serve you instead. You crave that power over him, for what glory could be greater than making a pet of the mighty Senju of the Forest?”

Madara listened quietly. For so long now, he had misjudged his father, thinking he had been used as a machine of vengeance and nothing else, fighting a neverending battle based on nothing but blinding hate. To hear his father speak of emotions and a love betrayed made his vilified old man seem more human, and it made their plight more real. It was not in him to feel shame at the revelation, but the lesson was not lost on him, either. No one knew better than he knew himself that Senju Hashirama was a weakness, but even he had trouble admitting that in his darkest, most private thoughts. The truth was, he kept that dream locked in a secret box locked into a deeper box. He hardly dared hope, but the barest whisper of that dream made it all seem so _worth it._ What might it be like, to have a real friend? To see that dream realized? To be an integral part in completely ending a centuries-old war?

Tajima peered at him somberly, encouraged by his silence. “I tell you this for your own good. _No good_ can come of an alliance with the Senju. We are too alike.They will be second to _none_. They will not submit, and they can _never_ be trusted. No matter how firmly you believe in that peace, no matter how good they might seem, they are the sweetest kind of evil, because they will enchant you with their nobility and all of their seeming goodness, and they will betray you all the same. Countless generations of Uchiha have fallen victim to their charms. So did my father, and so did I. This ends here. This ends now. It stops with _you_. He is not the man you think he is. It is an illusion. A trick. A scheme to put you in his cage. And he will, Madara, this I promise. Eventually, he will.”

They were quiet for a time. It seemed Tajima might have finally finished his story, and yet Madara needed time to digest it. He had learned that he had had a sister, and that his father had shared a similar friendship with their old foe, and all of it had disturbed him, for he had long considered his father beyond redemption, a foolish old man with his head stuck in his wars. A new respect grudgingly found its way into his heart, and that, too, was bothersome. It had been a long, long time since he had loved his father.

When at last the silence was comfortable, Tajima spoke again. “You came to see me. You never do that unless you have something important to say. What is it?”

Remembering, Madara lifted the crossbow and showed it to him. “Well you see…”


	9. Contagion

The weather of late was unbearable. Late into the spring, the temperature alternated between disgustingly hot and skin bitingly cold. In between, the humidity made their clothes stick to their bodies, and Mito’s hair would not cooperate. It clung to her scalp and created a sauna close to her head, threatening to boil her brains. Even worse were the rain spells; occasionally, the sky yawned open and drenched them all, lasting days at a time.

It was during one of the rain spells that Mito was certain she had caught an illness. She felt weak and exhausted all of the time, and food didn’t even sound appetizing. She warned any who came close to avoid her, fearing she had caught some kind of disease that might kill her. If that were the case, the virus could spread like wildfire in such close confinement; she might wipe out the Senju army singlehandedly and do the work of the Uchiha for them. With that in mind, she withdrew from the camp, choosing instead to sleep in her own tent outside the picket lines.

Until Tobirama decided she was being a fool, and called her out on it, anyway. He threw aside her tent flap and ducked inside, his eyes hard and merciless. Mito recognized the look; Tobirama had that bug again, and would not be taking no for an answer. She had the gut feeling that it would be bad news for her, too. “Get up, kohai,” he ordered, assuming an air of command rather than one of camaraderie, no matter that he was several years her junior. As the younger brother of the Senju warlord chief, he still had a position of authority in this camp, and that made him her superior anyway. He poked her in the ribs with his toes, jabbing her into awareness.

She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm her stomach. “I refuse,” she grumbled, draping her arm over her eyes to block out the blinding flash of sunlight from the place beyond. Several minutes passed while Tobirama attempted to look intimidating and Mito struggled to breathe in air that was thicker than water. Finally, he gave up, heaved a great sigh and sat beside her. “You don’t want to do that,” she warned him. “I’m sick. It’s probably contagious and it might be deadly. Your whole army could die.”

“Don’t underestimate the life force of the Senju,” he cautioned. “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

“Don’t underestimate the virulence of an outbreak,” she shot back, feeling combative. She was the expert in this, not him. It was she that had studied medicine, even if she was only barely passable as an initiate.

For some reason, her argument seemed to amuse him. “Oh?” he entertained, his voice rich with banked laughter. “And what kind of sickness is it that you’ve caught?”

And though he’d engaged her argument, she suddenly didn’t feel like indulging his patronization. She took another set of deep breaths, waves of nausea consuming her. “I really don’t want to talk right now. I’m fighting a war with my breakfast and I fear I might be losing it.”

He was silent for several minutes. She felt his eyes upon her, scrutinizing, analyzing. She only wished he’d go away and let her die in peace. Then, more quietly, “What are your symptoms, Uzumaki-san?”

Knowing he wouldn’t go away until she answered him in a way that satisfied, she took a deep breath. “I’m tired all the time.” She took another deep breath. “I feel… weak.” She swallowed. “And…” swallowed again. “I—I--I’m going to be sick.” She turned over on her side, away from the man in her tent, and lost her breakfast into the bucket she had provided for just this reason. Tired, heaving, she wiped her mouth and took a few more deep breaths. “And that,” she finished grumpily. “That most of all.” Silently, she mourned her breakfast. _Maybe I'll try again at lunch_. “Anyway, I’m sure I’m dying,” she finished, aggravated and a bit embarrassed that he’d seen her this way. “Are you satisfied now?”

“You’re not dying,” he told her gently. “From the sounds of it, you’re just pregnant.”

She stopped breathing. _Just_ pregnant? “That’s impossible.”

“Hmm…” Tobirama mused, thinking. “Well, have you… been with anyone?” He blushed furiously, realizing the deeply personal nature of exactly what he was asking. Such a question was deemed irrevocably rude. He rushed to cover his infraction. “You don’t have to tell me who...” he cautioned. “My interest is purely diagnostic!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “...But have you?”

Her mind worked into overdrive, trying to find a way that it might _actually_ be impossible. Making a child wasn’t exactly what she had been thinking about when she had lain with Masaru, nor had the consequence even crossed her mind. She had been more concerned with the despoiling of her virginity, and even that hadn’t seemed like a priority at the time. “I have,” she squeaked, mortified. Looking back, she couldn’t figure out why the thought hadn’t occurred to her. It just… hadn’t.

“Well there you have it.” He sounded pleased with himself, much more pleased than she felt at the revelation. “No more battlefield for you.”

“No,” she whined, though about which situation, exactly, she was unsure. She had found a sense of purpose in saving lives, and detaching herself from that purpose would return her to mediocrity. And, on top of that, she was certainly not prepared to be a mother without a partner. Without a husband, she was doomed to social isolation and shame. And what of the child?

“I refuse,” he told her, mimicking her from earlier. “I won’t let you waltz yourself into danger until your child is born.” He slapped his knees with his hands and pushed himself up with a purposeful sigh. “Find the man responsible and bring him to me. I’ll discharge him immediately so that you both can take the time you need to raise your child.” He reached down and grasped her arm. “Now, come with me. You need fresh air and food, whether you can keep it down or not. Oh, and congratulations!” he added with a bright smile.

She didn’t have the strength to resist him, and so she let him haul her up. He took her outside and returned her to the camp with the rest of the Shinobi. Knowledge of the situation started to sink in, and she didn’t resist nor complain that she was contagious anymore. Tobirama sat her down in front of the breakfast fire, barked an order to a couple of the men to move her tent back to the tent lines, and sat down next to her. The smell of food was making her nauseous, but he held a bowl in his hands regardless. “It’s just broth,” he said. “And bread. You should be able to keep it down.”

“How do you know these things?” she asked incredulously, accepting the bread and struggling to breathe clean air. The humidity made it thick and sickening, and every gulp of air made her feel hot and nauseous all over again, though her stomach roared savagely.

“Ah. Well.” He seemed to be thinking. “The Senju operate more like a family than an army,” he began conversationally. “They keep the mothers further back than the medics. You’re hardly the first pregnant woman I’ve met. And as for broth and bread… well… sometimes the men get drunk, and they act more or less the same. ‘I’m dying... I can’t eat,’ and so on and so forth.”

She nibbled on her bread. “Thanks,” she managed, unmoved by the humor.

“Not a problem.” He sat there quietly for a while, watching her carefully as she gnawed gingerly at the bread, chewing very slowly. “Hey, Uzumaki-san…” he began, trailing off.

“Hm?”

“It’s not my place to give advice,” he told her in a low voice, “but when you find your lover, you should find somewhere else to live. Away from the fighting. It isn’t a good place to raise a child.”

She shook her head. No, she was not going to give up on her dreams now that she was living them. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” she told him stubbornly.

He hesitated. She knew already what he was going to say, too. “You could go home,” he suggested.

She huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I cannot,” she retorted, already dreading such a meeting. Her father had been adamant that her only value lay in her maidenhead, and now that she had given it away, she was worthless to him. She’d have tried to keep it quiet, but if there was to be a child, such an endeavor was definitely impossible. If she went back home, she would probably be well taken care of, but it would be in defeat and shame. She would be forever treated like a child, little more than an animal with a parasite that needed to be fed, that much was certain.

Tobirama wisely said nothing. Mito knew that he was an intelligent man, though. She never spoke of home; her sudden and fortuitous appearance in their army told him all he needed to know, but her current occupation was of use to him, so he allowed it. He also noticed when she ducked under the Uzushio scouts that were searching for her, and had lied to them for her on more than one occasion. He rubbed her back consolingly, understanding that she would rather not go back to her homeland, though he had one more suggestion. “You can stay with the mothers, for a time, Uzumaki-san, but I won’t let you back out onto the battlefield.”

“I’ll think on it,” she appeased, “but remember that I am not one of yours. I don’t have to follow your order.”

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t. But, I can make it very difficult for you not to.”

She froze, knowing that it was true, then sighed. “I’ll look for the father of my child,” she relented. “And then we will talk.”

He smiled and handed her the broth. She accepted it grudgingly. Then, after a short assessment of her stomach to make sure the bread was staying down, she began to eat.

* * *

 

Madara stood square, his feet apart and his arms crossed. Impassively, he observed the blazing hot furnace of Izuna’s technique as it crackled in the air. It was a sizable wall of fire and burned hotly, threatening to dry out his eyeballs and blister his face. Any Uchiha would have been proud of such a technique. _Anyone_ _else_ would have looked upon that fire with a sense of accomplishment, content with their progress, for it was larger and stronger than any fire technique than Madara had ever seen, save _one…_ but anyone was _not_ Izuna, and anyone was _not_ Madara.

As the flame died out, the two brothers faced each other. “I know,” Izuna grumbled, wiping the char from the corners of his mouth with a sleeve. “I can’t reign in the edges… it loses heat too quickly.”

Madara was nodding in agreement, mildly disappointed, but pleased, too, that Izuna had seen the flaw in his own technique. “Don’t ever say ‘can’t,’” he chastised before commenting on the technique itself. “You’re spluttering.” That was the only way to describe it. Flame techniques such as this one required a strong and steady flux of air. _Performing_ such a technique was easy, but _mastering_ it was a different matter entirely. Izuna waited patiently, for the next part was what interested him. “You have to breathe continuously… breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, and keep breathing in and out simultaneously. It’s called ‘circular breathing.’ You can’t stop to catch your breath. And you have to be able to breathe more strongly, focusing the flame so that it’s pushing forward. It’s a weapon, not a display. Wield it. It’s for destroying, and it requires a force to propel it and drive it through.” He gestured smoothly with his hand.

Izuna listened intently. He was a good student, and never took the criticism too harshly. “I see. I’ll work on it.”

“Oy!” shouted a new voice from a distance away. Just then, one of the soldiers—Hiro, he remembered, one of his father’s friends—hustled up the hill. “It’s your father,” he said to Madara, giving a nod in Izuna’s direction. His tone was grave, and spoke of doom. Madara felt simultaneous dread and excitement. After all, he had been waiting for news of his father’s demise since he had surpassed him in strength. He was more than ready to take over, but… he remembered, too, Tajima’s tumultuous past, and felt regret, too. “Come quickly,” Hiro urged, beckoning him with a feverish wave of his hand.

They walked briskly, and Hiro relayed what had happened along the way. “There was a trap,” he explained. “Bloody Senju set them up all around camp sometime in the night. Tajima-sama tripped a wire on his way to the river.”

 _Brilliant_ , Madara commended Hashirama, mulling over the lesson. His old friend had booby trapped the area between their camp and the river, knowing it was their only water source, and necessary. A dirty trick, but effective. It was something his father had never considered, for they had been ranging far and away from the Senju camp for some time. Hashirama would have had to send scouts riding toward them for weeks, perhaps since only a few days after they’d set out back when…

 _Miyu._ The thought struck him suddenly and intensely. It had been only a few months since he had seen her, but it already felt like an eternity, and his heart ached with longing. If his father was dying, it was time to find her. After he assumed command. After his command was accepted by his father’s advisors. _Too long,_ he lamented _. Far too long._ But not much longer now.

Hiro held the flap of the tent aside so the two of them could enter, then left them alone with nothing but a knowing nod. Madara’s nostrils were stung by the scent of blood, and something else, something acidic and blighted. There was a trio of medics arranged around Tajima, babbling at each other in medical terminology that was lost on Tajima’s sons. “Leave,” Tajima ordered hoarsely.

“But, Uchiha-sama… if we don’t have enough time to identify the poison—“

“I’m dying, damn you,” he growled. “Just _leave_.”

Two of them looked toward the other, probably the one in charge. He shook his head only slightly, and then the three of them retreated. The charge clapped him on the shoulder and told him how sorry they were that they had been unable to save his father. “You did your best,” he reassured them. “I thank you for it.” _And I thank you for not doing any better, too,_ he added for himself. Although he had been reminded of his love for his father, he still understood how much the Uchiha clan had deteriorated in the later years of Tajima’s reign. It was time for Tajima to go, and Madara would miss him and rejoice in his death both.

It was an odd feeling.

Tajima’s sons went to his side, and Madara surveyed his wound briefly. The point of a sharpened shaft lay nearby, blackened with clotted blood and smelling strongly of rot. “Poison,” muttered his father. “Bloody Senju. A good trap.” He coughed blood into one hand. His brow was sweating and his skin was already pale and sallow. He didn’t have much longer, that much Madara could tell. “You’re in charge now,” he growled with the hint of a wheeze in his voice.

 _Lung puncture_ , Madara noted. _Definitely fatal. It could have been healed with chakra, without the poison. Hashirama knew that. All of the traps are probably poisoned._ Grimly, he noted that Hashirama had upped the stakes. He couldn’t control which of them was poisoned, which meant that Madara himself could have been caught up in the traps. Madara was beginning to sense Tobirama’s hand in this, for Hashirama’s little brother was a cold hearted bastard when it came to war, and operated on numbers more than sentiment, much like Tajima himself, but less likely to risk men needlessly.

He was beginning to understand his father’s bitter advice. “I understand,” he said shortly. “I’m ready.”

“I know,” Tajima assented. “I’m not a fool.”

Madara smirked, amused. Of course he knew. They both knew. They glared at each other for the last time. Probably, Tajima was unhappy to be giving up his leadership. He always was hellbent on keeping control of their people. Both of them knew that Madara had surpassed Tajima, but his father had not been willing to concede control for any reason. Either he worried that Madara’s intentions weren’t aligned with his own agenda, or he simply wasn’t willing to be sidelined. If he was anything like Madara himself, the answer was probably both.

Tajima’s lips twisted with unhappiness. “Now get out, and let me talk to my younger son,” he ordered. “And Madara,” he added. “Whatever happens… the clan always comes first.” 

Ah. Now _that_ , they agreed upon. “I won’t forget.” With that, he exited the tent. Hiro was waiting outside to ward off any other visitors. Madara glanced at him. “Take as many men as you need, and root out all of the traps three kilometers in every direction. I don’t care if it takes all week. And before you go, bring me those three medics who were just here.”

“Uchiha-san? They said there was nothing more they could do.”

“It’s Uchiha-sama, now,” he reminded Hiro tersely. “And I want them working on that antidote, in case there are any more incidents. And Hiro,” he added, “make sure that the men you take to disarm the traps know that there currently _is not_ an antidote, and that they should move about with care.”

Hiro looked miffed that he had been snapped into his place by a teenager, but he bowed and went to do as he was bid. Madara smiled to himself, liking the change. He flexed tense fingers, stretching and adjusting to his new role. He would wait for Izuna, though, before he went about making any announcements. Then, they would address the men together, and usher in a new era. 

_And then I will find her._


	10. Leavetaking

“Rise and shine, kohaiiii!” his voice trilled.

Mito groaned. Tobirama again. In place of the father of her child, Tobirama seemed to have taken a special interest in her care, and he was always there for her in ways she didn’t even appreciate. He made her breakfast, made sure she got fresh air, and provided amicable company. “I wish you wouldn’t keep doing this,” she grumbled, rolling out of her bedroll. “You know how much I hate knowing people.”

“Yes, yes, in case I die and all that,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I’m not going to die. I’ve told you that before. I’m _way_ too important.”

She leveled him with a look. “You might.”

“Did you find him yet?” he asked, completely changing the subject. He handed her a tin cup filled with a hot cup of coffee. He claimed it did wonders for waking people up, and she had to admit that it did provide her with an extra burst of energy, though she would always prefer tea.

She accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. “No,” she admitted. Again. She had been up and down the lines of tents, checking and asking discreet questions about her lover. She was cautious; it was equally as likely that Masaru had been from the Uchiha camp, and it was beginning to look that way, unfortunately.

“Oh.” Tobirama was arriving at the same conclusion. It was making him antsy. The notion that she might be carrying the child of their enemy made him nervous. It was also making him increasingly supportive of the idea of her going home. In fact, “You should go home, Uzumaki-san. You might receive unwelcome attention if you stay here, if… you know…” He put his own tin cup to his lips and sipped loudly.

She nodded in understanding. While she was certain Tobirama wasn’t exactly one of those people who would judge her--and he certainly did not mean her harm--she did comprehend that he didn’t want any harm to come to her or her child. Without Masaru, there was nothing more here that she could do. She might be stubborn, but she wasn’t a complete dolt. She nodded, feeling defeated. “You’re right.”

She thought his eyes would pop out of his head as he coughed on a half swallowed gulp of coffee until he was red in the face, wheezing and spluttering. “Did I hear correctly? Are you really considering going home?”

She set the mug upon her knees and looked away. She had had plenty of time to think about the situation she would face if she went home, but time with the life growing inside her made her considerate of other needs. If she stayed, there was the possibility that people in camp would find out that her baby was the child of the enemy, and her child would be in danger. She didn’t want that. On the other hand, leading a life of shame and disappointment wasn’t exactly appealing to her either. _But at least we’ll be safe._ Her eyes burned, and before she knew it, tears were streaming down her face. Her emotions, betraying her, right in front of Tobirama. “Damn it all,” she cursed, looking the other way even further so he wouldn’t see.

“There, there, Uzumaki-san!” he piped up cheerily. “They’re your family. Surely it can’t be all _that_ bad!”

He had no idea, but she didn’t want him to worry. “I’m sure it will be fine,” she sniffed, looking back toward her friend. “I just wish that… _he_ was here. He doesn’t even know.” She shrugged.

Tobirama’s face softened. “If anyone comes looking for you specifically, I’ll be sure to send him your way, no matter who he is. Your child deserves a father.”

She loosed a sob. “Thank you. You’ve been so very kind.”

* * *

 

A few weeks later, another Uzumaki scouting party stopped by their camp. The leader was one of her father’s men, and he’d been through here several times already. It was obvious by the tone of his voice that he was very tired of searching for her when he said, “Has anyone seen a lady, approximately twenty years of age, with bright red hair and noble bearing? She is a runaway from home, and her father would be willing to offer ample reward for her safe and unspoiled return.”

Mito stepped out of the shadows with a small pack of supplies and a warm cloak. “I’m here, Yuuto-san,” she peeped. Luckily, she wasn’t quite showing yet. She’d rather be able to keep her secret until she had to tell her parents. The cloak would help with that.

The man upon the horse yelped with surprise and glee. Those with him whooped as well. For them, this signified the end of three and a half years of long searching. They didn’t even have the energy to be angry with her; instead, they were glad that, at long last, they would be going home. “Uzumaki-sama!” Yuuto exclaimed, while around her there was a collective gasp from the Senju Shinobi who had gathered; most of them had had no idea who she was or her level of importance. “Your father will be overjoyed!”

 _I doubt that,_ she thought to herself, _but it is good of you to think so._ She had always liked Yuuto. He was a loyal man, and genial. “Allow me to just say my goodbyes, and then we can go.”

“Yes, Uzumaki-sama,” Yuuto said, deeply inclining his head. “Take all the time you need. We’ve been looking for you for a long while. A few more hours won’t hurt.” He flashed her a smile.

“Very gracious of you, Yuuto-san.” The party clucked to their horses, and the group trotted out of the center of camp, chatting excitedly about their successful mission. Once they were out of sight, she turned back to Tobirama. “Thank you, Tobirama-dono,” she said to the man who had cared for her the most while she hung on with the Senju company. “For all that you have done for me.” _For us,_ she silently amended.

“It was little enough, compared to the wonderful things you’ve accomplished while you were here,” he commended her honestly.

She hugged him, much to his surprise, while around them, others came forward. “Thank you, Uzumaki-sama,” said a face she didn’t recognize, just before he bowed in her direction. “You healed my ribs when they were broken and I couldn’t move. I am grateful to you.”

“Thank you, Uzumaki-sama,” said another, “for fixing my arm before it had to be amputated.”

“I’m grateful that you saved my son’s life,” said another, grasping her hands.

All around her, soldiers came forth to offer thanks and wish her well on her journey. Before she knew it, she was crying again. “It was my pleasure,” she found herself saying aloud, again and again, barely able to speak for the knot in her throat.

“Uzumaki-sama.” Her voice cut through the crowd like the blades that she carried. Mito turned around, somewhat surprised to see Senju Touka. Unlike most of the women associated with the Senju clan, Touka walked about clad in armor and holding the rank of captain. She was a rarity among their company, a kunoichi, and one who was impressive and terrifying. Alone among her kin, Touka was unafraid of the Sharingan, and wielded a frightening brand of genjutsu herself. Mito had seen her fight, and admired the woman for her tenacity and courage. “I heard you were leaving.” She glanced at Tobirama for only a moment, her lips drawing into a thin line.

Mito had to suppress a laugh. What she meant was that she _hadn’t_ heard that Mito was leaving from the one person she had expected to tell her. Tobirama seemed to have a soft spot for brave women, for he checked up on Touka extra, just like he had with Mito. The difference was, Touka wasn’t having any of it. In fact, it seemed to piss her off when Tobirama bothered her, perhaps because she didn’t feel as if she needed any special attention. Tobirama, for his part, wisely kept mum as Touka arrived to say her farewell. “Yes, I’m going home,” was her reply. “My family misses me, and they’ve had scouts scouring the countryside for the past several years to track me down. It’s time we all went home.”

“I see,” Touka said with her hands on her hips, giving Mito an appraising once-over. “You’re a fine woman, Uzumaki-sama. It’s rare to see a woman on the battlefield so brave as you.”

Mito blushed and wrung her hands. “I didn’t do any of the fighting, not like you.”

Touka smiled. “Holding a weapon and rushing into battle isn’t the only form of courage. If you’re ever in need of a new home, the Senju would gladly welcome you back.”

Mito chewed her lip, trying to keep the tears at bay, but failing. Her hormones were not allowing her to stay calm. “I will remember it, and the kindness shown to me by the Senju,” she replied, her voice trembling. “I will never forget any of you.” She realized the irony of that statement, since she’d spent the past three years doing precisely that. Touka shook her hand and wished her well, and then she melted back into the crowd.

“Wow,” breathed Tobirama from just beside her. “A compliment from Touka-kun. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that.” They made eye contact, and Tobirama’s expression grew severe. “I know something at home is troubling you, Uzumaki-san.” She was grateful that he didn’t see her as a noble, at least. She’d actually enjoyed feeling normal, for a change. “When this is all over, or when your child is grown, if you’re still uncomfortable… we will have you back. We won’t ask any questions, and you won’t have anything to fear.”

“Thank you,” she repeated for what felt like the thousandth time that day. So much graciousness that she felt she didn’t deserve. “Farewell, Tobirama-dono.”

“Take care of yourself, Uzumaki-san.” He paused. “I hope that one day you find him. Even if he is… you know... one of _them_.”

 _Me, too,_ she thought worriedly.

* * *

 

“I’m going to look for her,” he said to his brother, swinging up into his saddle and settling his reins. His stallion danced beneath him, eager to be off.

Izuna nodded once, a smirk playing on his lips. Only they two knew about Miyu, Madara’s lost love, and Izuna was more than happy to indulge his brother’s romance. “You’re kind of like a king now, after all,” Izuna opined. “And a king ought to have a queen. With the way you describe her, I think she was born for it.”

Reason number countless why Izuna was the best brother a man could ask for. “You’ll look after the clan while I’m gone,” Madara asked, though it was hardly a question. They did this same thing every time they arrived in a new place—or an old place, for that matter, so long as it might hold his Miyu.

“Of course.” And each time, Izuna was in charge as proxy, with the excuse that Madara was out scouting for himself. There were times when the older advisors were offended that Madara felt that he needed to scout on his own; after all, he was the chief, now, and should not risk himself needlessly. But Izuna had reminded them that their scouts had missed the traps, and no one was as talented as Madara, and that shut them up quick.

“You’re the best,” Madara told him honestly, digging his heels into the ribs of his horse. His heart in his throat, Madara road into the village of Mikomi. No reason she shouldn’t be here; Mikomi was a Shinobi supplier, and plenty of merchants were getting rich off the coins of the Shinobi. Also, there was a fairly advanced hospital in the area, so there was a chance that that was where Miyu had garnered inspiration to learn her craft. In his mind, of course, Mikomi was the perfect place for Miyu to live. _Every_ village he had scoured was.

And _none_ of them had had her in it.

He removed his armor and strapped it behind his saddle. He didn’t want anyone to believe that she had done something wrong, so he opted for a more civilian appearance. And then he started with the hospital. “Have you seen a young woman, about twenty years old, with bright red hair? She knows medical ninjutsu, and comes from a wealthy family.” The lady behind the desk shook her head. “Do you know who might know of her?” he asked next. The same questions every time, received with the same polite yet slightly irritated denial. “If you see her, can you tell her that Masaru was looking for her?”

“I will,” the lady assured him.

“Thank you.”

He went to the large house nearby. As it turned out, an ironsmith owned the establishment. They had not seen her, nor did they know who might know her, but they promised to pass on the message. Likewise, the cartographer had never seen a woman with red hair before in his life, but suggested he ask the ironsmith. And the stable master seemed sympathetic but couldn’t help him. Fourteen merchants in all, as well as the hospital, as well as three inns and several taverns, which were often good sources of information. He even checked the brothels, on the rare occasion that there was one. He doubted very much that his Miyu was a prostitute, but women like them knew of all the other women in town, and it was worth checking into, even if it was disconcerting to be propositioned in the middle of his questions.

In the end, Madara left Mikomi disappointed and feeling momentarily discouraged. _Then again,_ he realized, brightening, _Mikomi is now one less place to check._ There was a finite number of towns and villages across the land. She had to be in _one_ of them.

The only place he had ruled out, coincidentally, was the Senju army. No medic of the Uchiha’s greatest foe would have ever saved the Uchiha heir, nor failed to recognize who he was. Ruling out the Senju army was also practical; there was no way that he could mask the enormity of his chakra signature from the Senju sensors--Tobirama in particular--and sneak in undetected. Breaching the Senju lines was suicidal, and the likelihood that Miyu had betrayed the Senju for an Uchiha she didn’t even know was a ridiculous notion.

He just needed to keep looking.


	11. Masquerade

Though she had hoped to be received much more quietly, the reality was a lot more… loud. Of course, Yuuto had to send word ahead that she was coming so that she could be (in his words) “properly received.” Mito would have wished to be able to sneak back in without comment, but apparently her leaving had been a bigger deal than she had initially thought. The rumor was that Uzumaki Katashi was beside himself with grief at her defection from the household and Uzumaki Nanami had done nothing but weep.

 _Yeah, right,_ she thought bitterly. Though she would have enjoyed the thought of her parents missing her, the truth was more likely a selfish thing. Her father had seen her as his ticket to the land across the treacherous sea, a bargaining chip to cement an alliance with one of the larger, more powerful clans. In losing her, he had lost his only means to fulfill any ambitions he might have entertained. As for her mother… Uzumaki Nanami had always been prone to weeping. Mito could believe that she spent a lot of time crying, but only because she seemed to love making a drama of anything. Losing her daughter to the war across the sea was probably a dream come true for her theatrics.

The parade onto the estate grounds was unnecessary, though, as was the rain of cherry blossom petals. These, Mito watched with dismay as they fluttered uselessly to the ground, only to be trampled by uncaring feet. She realized, too, that the flowers, the fanfare, and the box of display doves had probably cost a small fortune, another reason for distress. It wasn’t that she any longer believed that she was not worth the display, only that she knew there was no affection behind it. She knew her family well enough; if they were making a scene about how pleased they were for her return, it was more for the public than for her, a demonstration of their wealth.  

Chin lifted with pride, she made the decorative walk of shame to meet her parents on the steps of her childhood home. They didn’t know it was a celebration of her shame—not yet—but _she_ did, and she would not let them make a mock of her. The years in the west had changed her. She had saved people’s lives, been welcomed into the fold of one of the most powerful clans of history, made friends with the brother of a king, and found true love. She had been made to feel special and appreciated, and whatever manner of torment her parents thought to visit upon her for the secret she now carried in her womb, they would never take that from her again.

“Father. Mother,” she greeted with a respectful bow.

Her parents’ greeting was… expected. Her mother mostly just howled with falsified joy and embraced her, spewing melodramatic attestations of love and devotion to her much-cherished daughter. Her father also embraced her briefly, smiling and welcoming her home before drawing her inside. There was cheering behind her as the people of Uzushiogakure welcomed home their darling, though when she had become that to them eluded her. Odd, she mused, how no one noticed she was there at all until she wasn’t.

As the warm vanilla scent of her home assaulted her nostrils, the dread came with it. She already mourned her freedom, for as soon as those doors closed, she’d be subjected to the reality of the Uzumaki. Her parents were entirely different people in public than they were in private, a common hazard of the wealthy, more concerned with their image and possessions than they were with happiness itself. Beyond closed doors, the return of their daughter would be an entirely different ordeal. Then, the heavy oaken doors boomed shut, latches clicking into place, and the sound echoed through vast, nearly empty rooms. _I live in a museum,_ she thought with dismay, wrinkling her nose at the lavish displays of money, rare art and useless contraptions with no purpose. What she wouldn’t give already to trade the vanilla for the scent of campfires, the empty rooms for open plains.

The moment the doors were shut, her father rounded on her wearing his second face, the one reserved only for her. Pure, undiluted fury. “Where in the gods’ green earth have you run off to now, you wicked child? Do you have any idea of the number and severity of the inconveniences you have put us through to try to find you?”

Four years ago she would have cringed automatically, feeling the sting of his disappointment. _Wicked_. _Child. Inconvenience._ Words that described what she was to them. But she had a child of her own now, and she had seen the way that family was supposed to behave as she lived among the Senju. Her child would not grow up in that kind of poison environment. Her morals were important to her, and none moreso than the truth. _Oh well,_ she thought. _Better to get this all out of the way now._ “I’m pregnant,” she announced, completely ignoring the unreasonable questions, her tone carefully neutral. _Remain calm. Stand tall,_ she told herself. _I’m an adult, and their equal in the eyes of the world._

She actually drew satisfaction from the look of frozen, poleaxed shock on their faces. It was, startlingly, her mother that recovered first. She gasped a deep breath and spoke with a tone and expression of stark horror. “You didn’t!” Her fingertips flew to her lips, unable to comprehend.

The broken silence seemed to reanimate her father, who shook from head to toe with rage and roared, _“WHAT?!”_ The force of his voice was so loud that the walls seemed to tremble, and she flinched at the sheer volume. As it always did with him, the moment she showed a weakness, he bludgeoned at it with every tool he knew. “You _whore!_ Do you have any idea what you have _done_? You bring _shame_ upon this family and upon yourself. You’re a _disgrace_! You’ve despoiled your only value, you realize that? No man will ever want to touch you now. Your future is ruined. _Ruined_ , you idiot!”

Mito’s brow crinkled with her own brand of fury. She didn’t feel ashamed, not really. As a matter of fact, she was filled to bursting with love and excitement to meet her baby. _His_ child. The legacy of Miyu and Masaru, a child that the gods had wanted so badly that they had thrust they two together in a country besieged by fighting. Furthermore, if her time away from home had taught her anything, it was that she had much more value than what lay between her legs. And lastly, she knew one man out there that wanted her... _very_ much. He’d be looking for her by now, she was sure of it, and it was only a matter of time before he assailed this land and the cruel people who had been masquerading as loving parents to take her away forever. Invigorated by the truth, strengthened by his belief in her, she stood even straighter, intending to make her case. “Actually, I have been able to—“

 _“SILENCE!”_ bellowed her father, black eyes wild with rage. She flinched, fearing he might actually strike her. The word echoed up and down each hallway, redoubling its force even as it halved its volume. His voice lowered to a venomous whisper before he spoke again. “How dare you defy me. _You_ , who have no honor, no value, not even a penny to your name. I should have you _stoned_ to death in the streets for what you’ve done to your mother and me. You are a _stain_ on our reputation.” He stabbed a finger into her face, accusing. Her mother choked on a sob, apparently lost to her own grief.

Mito recoiled as if slapped, her breath catching in her throat. Her father had been harsh, even cruel at times, but there had never been a time when she had felt actually reviled, hated even. But to suggest that she needed to be killed? It was too much. A knot of emotion rose in her throat. She worked her lips, but no sound came out, the words caught in her mouth like a gag, choking her and stealing her breath. She gasped for air, hurt and incredulous that he would say such things, even for this. Despite it all, she had still held onto a love for her father, and believed he cared for her too, in his own way. She had known he would not take her news well, but she hadn’t quite expected… well, _that_.

“There’s nothing to be done with you now,” he grumbled, rubbing the center of his forehead as if trying to smudge away a migraine. “I should have called off the scouts a long time ago and left you to your… _activities_.” He spat the word like a curse. “As it stands,” he said on a long suffering sigh, “I suppose that means that we must be saddled with you and your burdensome whelp, as you’re no longer fit to be married. Do try not to embarrass us any further. Remain out of sight, and do not speak unless you are asked to.”

As it always had, his brutish tactics broke right through her shell of confidence and reduced her to the frightened, spineless girl she had once been. “I won’t,” she replied meekly, scared back into submission, so soon after feeling utterly powerful and beautiful in every way. She executed a hasty, crooked bow, brushed past them and found her room, left exactly as she’d left it, bed unmade and everything. Unceremoniously, she dumped herself upon the mattress and howled with anguish at her situation, arms wrapped around her middle, trying to quell the pain of rejection.

 _Masaru… hurry…._ Belatedly, she wished she had broken her rule of anonymity just this once. If she had ever known his real name, if he had known hers, they could find each other and live happily ever after. Instead, she’d left him the challenging task of finding Uzushiogakure, and her, locked away in her maiden’s tower—or more accurately, the evil lord’s dungeon. _True love will prevail,_ she told herself. _He promised._ She’d made sure of it. Surely the gods were not so cruel as to deny the child they had insisted upon its father, nor condemn them both to this cruel fate. Unfortunately, for the time being, she needed the Uzumaki. She did not have what she needed to care for herself. 

She missed the Senju. She remembered Tobirama’s—and Touka’s, too—last words to her. As soon as her child was old enough, and the shadow of suspicion dispelled, she was welcome among them once more. Living with them had made her feel as if she belonged somewhere. Gradually, she stopped crying, caught up in a spell of dreaming. _How wonderful would it be to live with Masaru among the Senju, and for our child to grow up with a father._ She smiled at the thought, momentarily relaxed.

She rolled over onto her back, her hand drifting to her belly. “You will be loved, little one,” she told her child. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” Caught up in dreaming of a better world, surrounded by smiling Senju and wrapped in the arms of the one she loved, she dozed off.

When she awoke again, she suffered momentary amnesia. For just a brief second, she had thought perhaps that she was back among the picket lines, and any moment Tobirama would burst through her tent flap and bark at her to get up and greet the morning. She even nearly groaned at him to tell him to leave her alone. But then, she realized that the room smelled of her mother’s atrocious vanilla incense, and just as before, the fragrance planted a seed of dread within her. She wasn’t with the Senju at all, but stuck here with her mother and father, and they had never loved her as the Senju had. The silence only punctuated the loneliness.

She sucked in a deep breath, trying to find the strength to face her day. What had she done before when she was unhappy in her own home, before she had had the strength to run away?

With a private smile, she remembered, and before long, Mito was in the library. “Arata-san!” she called out to the librarian. When she had been a child, the squirrely old man who collected books had been the man she had wished was her father. He was eccentric, kind, and had a passionate love for learning. When she had expressed an interest in what kind of magic was contained within the covers of his beloved books, Arata had been beside himself with glee to share his weirdness. It had been his medical texts that had begun Mito’s journey into the west, and his medical texts that her father had ordered to be burned. Arata, tears in his eyes for the disrespect for the pursuit of knowledge, had begged her not to feel responsible, but she still did to this day. The old man had been her first friend, and remained dear to her. Of all the troubles that she would face while she was forced to live here again, Arata might be able to keep her hopes burning. “Arata-saaan!” she called again, flouncing into an armchair and waiting, impatient and with a smile on her face, tracing the designs on the upholstery as she had always done as a child. 

A wizened old woman shuffled out from the librarian’s office. Her glasses rested upon the bridge of a long nose, and she peered over them, a book in her hand. “Ah,” she drawled. “You must be the long lost Uzumaki Mito.”

For a moment, Mito forgot her manners, too emotionally drained and stressed to have cared. “Who are you?” she asked, her face contorted with confusion.

“Sugarawa Ran. Charmed.” She inclined her head, but only just barely.

Mito decided instantly that she disliked the woman, and probably only on the simple grounds that she was not Arata. “Where is Arata-san, the librarian?” She knew already, of course, but she could hardly believe it. _Refused_ to believe it.

Ran smiled, but it reminded Mito of a predator. Like a piranha. Or a fox. “Ueno Arata resigned nearly two years ago. He commissioned a ship and sailed across the sea. If you need a book, you can ask me. I’m the librarian now.”

 _He left because I left,_ she realized with hurt and shock. She stared at the woman as if she had grown another head. She was too thrown off by the absence of Arata and the appearance of his alleged replacement. She hadn’t actually come here for a book, and she didn’t want this woman’s help, now or ever. Decorum completely abandoned, she simply walked out of the library without so much as a bow of ‘thanks but no thanks’.

Back in her room, alone, she laid her hand over her belly again. “It’s just you and me now,” she whispered, struggling hard not to cry. “Pray your oto-san comes for us soon. I don’t want you to have to grow up here. We’ll escape together. _I promise_. And your oka-san will always keep her promises.” The tears came, but she managed to keep from sobbing. Barely.

* * *

 

Far away, Madara was simmering with rage, and his advisors were on the receiving end. He had failed to locate Miyu so far and his patience was running out. Deep in his heart, he had the increasing sense that something was wrong. He had never been superstitious before or believed that people could have a connection that transcended time and space, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. She needed him, and he was running out of time.

“Uchiha-sama?” Hiro urged again. “What is your command?”

Irritated, Madara swiped the pieces off of the map, eyes swirling to life with the dangerous, barbed wheel of the Mangekyou. He was still learning to control it, and it was far more difficult when he was pissed. The figures sailed across the tent and smacked into the pliable sides, clattering upon each other in the dirt below. As one, the gathered generals froze, expressions lifeless, and merely waited. By now, they were well familiar with his outbursts, and Tajima’s before him. They were learning, too, to maintain a healthy fear of his new eyes. Flaring tempers had been accepted as the mark of an active mind in their clan, and every clan leader before him had paved the way for his outrage. He had not led them astray in their battles so far, and so they had no cause to doubt him. His personality was none of their concern, only that he led them to and from their appointed duels and that most of them survived the encounter. Beyond that, his personal life was his business, and they cared not a whit for the person within his shell.

For a while, there was no sound save for the crickets beyond their gathering place.

He blinked, then noticed that they were watching him grimly, accepting his leadership only because they dared not challenge him. It must have seemed foolish, and rightly so, to defy a man whose power was so terrible that it made his eyes bleed just to use it. The black flames of Amaterasu had left a lasting impression, particularly on the fool that had dared to declare him emotionally unstable and unfit for rule. “Yes, yes,” he muttered impatiently, waving his hand to hurry things along. “Resupply food at the usual place and rendezvous with the Tamura clan. We’ve done this a dozen times. Why do you even need me here?” He planted both hands on the table that held the map and glared at the provinces outlined there, detached from the advisors and the idiocy that typically spewed from their mouths. In his mind, he crossed out the names of villages that weren’t even listed upon its multicolored surface. No. No, no, no, no, no. None of them correct. _Damn it!_  

_Where are you, Miyu?_


	12. Proximity

Madara glared at the sea with distaste. The chopping, tumultuous waves annoyed him. How could anyone actually _like_ the ocean, he wondered? It stank of fish and stale salt, burned his sensitive, precious eyes, and threatened to break their ship apart. If he never had to ride in a ship ever again in his lifetime, it would be too soon. Half a dozen times, he seriously considered turning the boat around and forgetting all about Uzushiogakure--the Village Hidden in the Whirlpools--and the Shinobi settlement it contained. It was only that the alternative bothered him more that kept him going.

Pulling off this expedition without revealing the purpose for it had been a different kind of challenge. He had had to convince his ‘advisors’ (sometimes they felt more like fools sent just to torment him) that the island in the east was a priceless resource for supplies, and even then they were hesitant to allow him to go, for the nation’s largest clan, the Uzumaki, had genial relations with their enemies, the Senju. He had had to pull rank and stare down Hiro with the newly discovered Mangekyou before they had let him be, not wishing to provoke him any further. His control on the techniques he had acquired was tightening, his power focusing and strengthening, and he feared nothing and no one now. He lived for the day that he faced Hashirama again, for he was positive that he would never lose again.

When he was done with this journey, he was going to set the ocean on fire, and rejoice as the damned thing fizzled up into nothing. He felt a surety that he could do it, too. He felt nauseous and angry. Like a tiger prowling its cage, all he wanted was to be free of the confinement, able to stretch and walk with the grass beneath his toes.

But she was _worth it._ So, he endured.

Truth be told, he found it doubtful that Miyu had come from this land anyway. She seemed like the kind of person who preferred the forest, rather than the sea. But there were only two places left on his entire map that he had not yet checked: Uzushiogakure and the tightly guarded lines of the Senju. If it turned out that she wasn’t among the people of Uzushio, he’d have to come up with a way to infiltrate the Senju, and he wasn’t looking forward to that at all. It meant, in some way, that he and Hashirama would have to meet in a gridlock until one of them emerged victorious. Madara would own the Senju (and thus, he’d finally find Miyu among them) or the Senju would absorb the Uchiha (in which case he’d find her anyway).

But then, the chance to fight Hashirama again made his blood hot, burning with the desire to fight. For years, they had been near in power. Lately, though, Hashirama was showing more aggression than he had before, and Madara had a fresh set of Mangekyou Sharingan, and he wanted so badly to test his mettle. His new eyes were _begging_ to be unleashed fully in a proper battle. The thought made him so bloodthirsty that sometimes he couldn’t sleep because of it, fantasizing about how much damage he could feasibly deal. He had to balance his frantic search for his lost love with his need to engage the Senju, however, and give no hint to either of his tasks that he was preoccupied with the other. If the Senju thought he was weakening, they would overwhelm his army. And, too, there was the promise that he had made to Miyu. It was one he meant to keep, no matter the cost.

_Are you still waiting, my love?_

He had vowed to tear the world apart until he found her, and he was such a vast conduit of power now that he knew that he could. Down to the marrow of his bones, he ached with the force of it. All he would need to do was open one of his eyes, and the earth would peel itself open at his command. Open the other, and it would burn, too. His soul screamed with desperation, so that he wanted to tear his hair out and bellow his displeasure and set everything on fire until he smoked her out, all at once. He felt like a beast prowling the tiny confines of a cage, for as much as he roared and struck out in violence, she still did not appear. If he cracked the earth, split it upon its axis and shook it with the force of an age-ending earthquake, would she fall out of it then, he wondered?

...Had he dreamed her, after all? Was she just a phantom of a fever dream of a dying man?

His promise to preserve the clan was hanging in the precarious balance, as well; he had yet to decide which was more important to him: the love of his beautiful--and perhaps imaginary--medic, or the preservation of an entire people that, whether they liked it or not, were completely his? With the power of the Mangekyou, he had his entire clan _cowed_ , for they dare not even _speak_ out of turn. With that kind of power, he could conquer this entire godsforsaken country and there was no one strong enough to oppose him, not even Hashirama. The Senju would be his at last.

Sometimes, being a leader was extraordinarily difficult.

When the ship docked in the harbor—miraculously untouched by whirlpools, for which the island was famous—he sprang off the deck boards with way too much enthusiasm. _If only I could fly back_ , he thought wryly. Boarding the ship again made him want to be sick. Spending a few days here was going to be a necessity. His stomach couldn’t handle the return journey.

Only a few hours upon the island, though, and Madara felt infinitely better. For the first time, the number of people with red hair far outnumbered the people without. It seemed an odd trait to be dominant, and it had seemed much rarer on Miyu when he had seen her the first time. He recalled that with perfect clarity, how she sat straight and composed, sipping her tea. After dismissing his men to spend his coins on certain items that could only be found in sea faring villages, Madara made his way up to the largest house he could see. Tired and seasick, he hobbled toward the door of the Uzumaki estate. And, despite being exhausted from the emotional strain of trying to track down one woman among millions, he felt strangely optimistic this time.

The man that answered the door had sandy colored hair and dark grey eyes. It was there that his first disappointment struck. This couldn’t be his Miyu’s father. “I’m looking for a young woman. She’s about twenty, red hair, a high degree of medical skill. Have you seen her?”

The look that the man gave him was bizarre, and strangely… angry? The reaction actually confused Madara. He had endured a variety of reactions to his questions, ranging from sympathy to confusion to mockery, but never had anyone seemed hostile toward him before. “No,” the man answered curtly.

“Do you know where I might find someone matching the description?” He strained to keep his voice polite, but something about this guy… rankled.

The man’s cloudy grey eyes flashed with temper. “Look around you, boy,” he grumbled. “Everywhere you look is a young woman with red hair. If you’ve got an itch in need of scratching, any of them will do.”

 _That_ did it. His comment was so appallingly rude, as if the stranger was suggesting that he already knew Madara’s character well enough and that it was one of ill repute, that he had had enough. He took a grandiose step forward, putting his body within the personal space of the other man, pouring menace into his stature and allowing the Sharingan to bleed red so threateningly that blood poured down to his chin, masking his face in gore and defiling the man’s doorstep. The man’s eyes widened in alarm, and he took a step further back into his home. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend you, _sir_ ,” Madara relayed with deadly calm, patience exhausted at last, “but I advise you very strongly not to play games of dominance with me. I’m near the end of a _very_ long journey and my patience has about run out. And I’m sure, _so very sure_ , that I can reduce you to a dust of ash on your doorstep and sleep like a babe tonight. Think. _Very_. Carefully... about what you say to me next, and pray to your gods that whatever it is you say puts me in a pleasant mood. And just so we’re clear--” his eyes narrowed dangerously, “--your odds aren’t that good.”

The man’s lips flapped involuntarily, but no sound came out. All talk, nothing to back it up, he surmised. A shame. A good, challenging fight might do wonders for his nerves. “Dead,” the man croaked at last.

Madara blinked, disbelieving. The air went out of his lungs, his eyes widening with shock. “What?”

“D-d-dead,” he repeated. “She ran off to the wars, got herself k-k-killed.”

That certainly hadn’t been the answer Madara was expecting. He went so numb that he completely deflated, all of the fight leeched right out of his muscles. His eyes cooled to their normal blackness, his shoulders sagging with defeat. The other man took advantage of his distraction and slammed the door in his face. There was the sound of a lock being shoved violently into place, though if Madara had wanted to get through the door, no door nor lock would have kept him out.

The moment it was closed, all of the built up hope from the journey evaporated, and he just felt _tired_.

When the exhaustion faded, in its place would be a fathomless well of emptiness, a starving beast within him that craved nothing but destruction, so that the world might know his pain. The next several years would be bloody battle after bloody battle, and the death toll would feed the crows fat to bursting. Madara had burned with far too much passion for far too long, and given the power to sear the land into nothing but a wasteland of ashes, he felt the desperate desire to do _exactly_ that.

* * *

 

“A girl,” the doctor announced, wiping his hands on a hot, damp rag and smiling.

“She’s so beautiful,” Mito marveled, holding her daughter, delighted by her first indignant squalls of displeasure in a world that was sure to disappoint. Everything else might be going to hell around her, but Mito was absolutely certain now that she had all that mattered right there in her arms. “Thank you,” she said to the doctor. Surrounded by people who were generally unkind to her, Mito was glad that the doctor, at least, was more interested in the miracle of life than the circumstances of how it had come to grow within in her, sublimely ignorant of Mito’s social standing.

“Always a pleasure,” the doctor told her with a graceful bow. “It’s my honor to usher in the new generation. Have you decided on a name?”

“Momoka*,” she told him gladly, unable to contain her tired yet joyful smile. It was a silent nod to Touka and Tobirama and the Senju, her way of expressing thanks, even if she never saw them again. It was because of them that Momoka was alive and well, and that Mito had the courage to do what was necessary to make sure of that. Someday, she hoped that their namesake might get to meet the people who had been such an important part of her life.

“It suits her,” the doctor said with a nod. “And I’ll tell you what I tell all of the other new mothers I am privileged to work with: that child, there, in your arms…” he pointed with his towel, “...is your life’s masterpiece, and you will never be done painting.” Mito turned serious eyes on the man who had helped her bring Momoka into the world safely, understanding his meaning. There was a long road ahead of them, likely not easy. Mito would need to teach her daughter that there was goodness, too, and probably all of her life’s worth of lessons would come from solely herself. Momoka’s grandparents wanted nothing to do with her; she was a bastard daughter without a social leg to stand on, of less worth than Mito herself. “You’ve done well, Uzumaki Mito,” he finished with a grin. “And you’ll be just fine.”

Alone with her daughter, Mito couldn’t be happier. There were always pieces and parts of her life that she wished had gone better. She still held onto her hopes that Masaru would find her. Still wanted to return to the Senju if she could. Still wanted to leave home forever and never return. But there… in that moment… none of it mattered. Momoka’s tiny fingers and toes waving in the air as she loudly complained brought her so much joy that she thought she would literally burst. “Such mighty lungs,” she cooed at her little girl.

Almost immediately, the girl’s crying stopped. She opened wide, dark eyes, blinking and staring into the face of her mother. “There’s a good girl,” she said, smoothing over the tiny patch of red fuzz on her scalp. It was gorgeously soft, another thing about her Momoka-chan that was utterly perfect; Mito couldn’t stop smiling for the wonder she held. “We’re all we have now, so we’ve got to make the most of it. I hope that you will like me because there is no one in this world that I love more than you.”

With a skip of her heart, Mito realized how true that that was. Here in her arms was a tiny, vulnerable life that depended on her; part Masaru, part herself, with the potential to live without the shadows that had darkened both of their lives. It was all up to Mito to make sure she never suffered or felt unloved. Though they had only just met, Mito felt the solid certainty that she would gladly kill for Momoka. Whatever it took to keep her safe, no matter the price.

“I knew you’d be cursed with a daughter,” her father declared as she cleaned up after dinner one evening. “It’s only right, after what you’ve done to me. I hope she’s just as disobedient and willful, too,” he added with a sniff. He said nothing more, and so she ignored it. Nothing could touch her now, for in the eyes of society she had hit the very bottom, and there was nothing she feared to lose now, save for her daughter. So, she had adopted a new set of rules since Momoka’s birth. If something didn’t endanger them, ignore it. If something would make their lives easier, seize upon it. She would no longer live with regrets. Momoka depended on her to make all of the right decisions for them both.

As the years wore on, Mito’s hope began to die. If Masaru was going to find her, by now he would surely have done so. Too much time had passed. There were only a few reasons that she could think of for him to have broken his promise: either he was dead, or he had given up. Either way, the chance that he was coming was diminishing rapidly. Slowly, grudgingly, Mito began to try to let him go. He would always remain a sweet memory, and she would always long to see him again, but practicality was a tenet of Mito’s life, and practically speaking, Masaru had abandoned her.

Meanwhile, Momoka was a joy. She had received the perfect blend of her parent’s features: deep, rich red hair that gathered in front of her bright, curious black eyes. When she was not deeply, intensely fascinated by the wonders around her, she laughed, loud and often, played in the fountains in the garden, and scribbled on every scrap of paper she could find. The walls of their garden were the barriers to another world, for within the confines of the garden walls, Mito and Momoka were happy and free. If she could forget, only for a moment, that she was more or less a prisoner here, she could believe that they were somewhere else, enjoying an afternoon surrounded by friends.

Living in Uzushio was a constant reminder of the stigma she bore, though, and the judging eyes and rumors were constant. It angered her that anyone could consider her daughter a mistake. At times, she was even irritated with herself for having ever thought that in the first place. Yes, she might be unhappy living in Uzushiogakure. Yes, she wished more than anything to return to the Senju. Yet, she was glad for Momoka, and she wouldn’t trade the little girl for anything, not even her own freedom. Because of her daughter, there was still goodness in the world. Momoka was her singular solace, reaffirming with each passing day that she would do anything--anything at all--to protect Momoka’s future and her innocent, carefree happiness.

And so, when Momoka was three years old and life had found its way into a routine, she was completely blindsided when Yuuto interrupted mother-daughter time with an exciting bit of news. “Uzumaki-sama!” he shouted excitedly, throwing open the gate and scurrying inside. He hastened a perfect, but swift bow, bobbing so fast that his ponytail snapped forward and backward like a whip. “Wonderful news! A ship arrived this morning. There’s a man that came to find you. He’s asking for you specifically. He looks like a clan chief, and… and I think he means to make you his wife!” His grin was infectious and excited. _For her._

She wished she had been more appreciative of Yuuto in that moment, but she was too shocked by the news. Her only thought was that Masaru had finally found her and come to claim her. Just when she had completely abandoned hope, he had delivered on his promise after all, and she was ashamed of herself for ever doubting. “Momoka,” she said gently, her voice trembling with nerves. “Yuuto-san will take you to your room. I’ll come get you soon, okay?”

She giggled and took Yuuto’s hand, and Mito watched her little girl leave the garden. As the gate banged shut, Mito fussed with her hair, feeling her heart skip a dozen beats, playing a wild cadence in her chest. _He’s here!_ she inwardly shrieked with girlish glee. Just knowing that he was close made her feel special again, and all of her lost power came flooding back. Spine straight, head held high, and with laughter in her heart, she went to meet her husband-to-be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Momoka=Peach Tree. It's a nod to Touka and the Senju because Touka=peach blossom, and the Senju are known as "The Senju of the Forest," living among the trees and, in Hashirama's case, mastering them, as well.
> 
>  Reader 'amyenah' made some fanart for Momoka! SEE?  
> http://amyenah.deviantart.com/art/She-Knows-She-s-Cute-494820512  
> \---
> 
> A few things, randomly and without warning (***Rant Imminent***)
> 
> For starters, I'm out of town until Sunday night, so there won't be another chapter until at least Sunday night. 
> 
> That said, I've been involving myself with my NaNoWriMo project, my first actual, original fantasy novel (based on my story "Peach Flower" and the story that my probably-dead-coauthor and I never finished entitled "Nightshade") that I plan to complete and finally publish, and I must say it has been a real treat so far.
> 
> I'm really getting frustrated with writing fanfiction. It kind of kills the spirit to see something like "Forever" tank in such an epic fashion when the utter crap that floods the system is enjoying wild popularity. Here we are, more than 30,000 words into this journey, and I've just now crossed 150 hits. As that is 10 chapters, that means I've barely averaged 15 hits a chapter. More realistically, it's the same dedicated handful of people that still follow me around (I love you guys, by the way). 
> 
> I'd love to say I'm going to miss you guys when I'm done publishing fanfics, but the reality is that there aren't even that many people reading this and even fewer that ever bother to comment. Every now and again I just get overwhelmingly depressed at how much my efforts are just mostly going to waste. Hours and hours, days and days, a deep well of emotions that ebbs and swells as I write this, and at the end of the day I'm really just listening to me telling a story to myself while a select few hang out and listen in.
> 
> Writing something original might finally be my chance to get more satisfaction out of doing this than merely seeing a project to completion. At least there's a chance that someone might actually read it. So, as November nears, I've backed off, kind of a lot. After Forever is completed (about 70K words left to go) and after Dreaming Dragon and I finished Sins of the Father (ETA: ?), I think I'm done for a while. I'm going to market that original (now entitled "Achillea") as if my life depends on it. If you're reading this and you think you might want to read it, I think I'm going to release the first installment of it for free on eBook. I'll let you know on my profile when it's complete. After that hits the internet stores, I'll be monitoring my success carefully and trying to get on some radars. And then, if all goes well, maybe I'll just write novels for the rest of my life. *shrugs* 
> 
> Special thanks to Larry, Skywinder, Countess, and Athrna, for following me so closely. You guys I really will miss. And Dreaming Dragon, of course, for being my Partner in Crime. And Chaos, if you're out there... I really do hope you're not dead.


	13. Proposal

Her smile died on her face the moment she stepped into the room with her father and the man--who wasn't Masaru--who was asking for her. Just as quickly, though, she remembered her manners. Whoever the man was, he was her only hope of getting out of Uzushiogakure, and she didn’t wish to offend. Something about him seemed ever so slightly familiar, even if he wasn’t Masaru. “Hello, Mito,” he addressed her, his smile warm and inviting. Her being jarred with the force of her name, all formality dropped. _He dared--!_ She was so indignant she felt like slapping him, but something hidden in the shadows of his eyes begged her not to. Wary and suspicious, she waited. 

“Mito,” her father began, all long-absent love returning to his voice. It was a side of her father she hadn’t seen in too long, since before she had left her homeland and traveled across the sea. Before Momoka. Her suspicion sharpened, for she did not trust her father, and basically figured everything that came out of his mouth was a lie. “Senju Hashirama has explained everything. You don’t need to keep his secret anymore.”

Mito blinked at the guest, her father entirely forgotten, wondering if she had gone suddenly ill, or if it was everyone else that had lost their wits. _Senju Hashirama_? The lord of the Senju, in her home, asking for her by name? And _what_ secret? Her logic worked in rapid form, piecing together the shards of a very complicated puzzle. If Hashirama was here, claiming to know her, then he surely had some kind of motive in mind; he was not known to be an idiot. He made a gesture with his eyes, pleading with her to play along. She had no reason to distrust the Senju, even if she had never met this one before. From what was said around the camps, Hashirama was a singularly great man. “This is a wonderful surprise isn’t it?” he chuckled, trying again to break the ice. “Didn’t you miss me, my love?”

Realization dawned. _Ah, so that is his game._ She recovered quickly and graced him with a much warmer smile then and went to him, wrapping arms around his middle. “I’m so glad you finally came!” she breathed, tears coming to her eyes. They, at least, weren’t feigned; hearing the words come out of her mouth, wishing they were for someone else, tore at her soul. “Father,” she said with a forced grin, wiping theatrical tears that would have made her mother proud, “might we have a word, in private?”

“Of course,” Katashi replied with a softer smile. He retreated, giving them the room alone. Whatever the lord of the Senju had said to her father, she had apparently been absolved of all of her sins.

How... _interesting_.

When the door was closed, she found her strength and rounded on the Senju clan chief. “What are you doing here?” she hissed, crossing her arms. Suddenly, realizing how rudely she had assaulted him, she blanched, bowed, and added, “Senju-sama.”

“I’m sure this comes as quite a shock,” he said to her with a laugh. “I can explain.”

Now that they were alone, she regarded him with a more critical eye. Young, slightly younger than herself perhaps, with straight dark hair and dark eyes, and a ready smile that exchanged fluidly with a profoundly serious expression. It was easy to attach that face with the name of Senju Hashirama, but that still didn’t fully explain his presence in her house, or why he had been asking after her by name. “Please do,” she responded curtly, making it sound more like an order than a request.

“Well. Ah, where to begin.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, composing his words. She quirked an eyebrow with curiosity. For all of his fancy titles, she had supposed that he might be… calmer, perhaps more regal? There was no doubt that there was something noble about him, but he seemed so… _casual_. “I want to thank you from the very bottom of my heart for the service that you have done for my family and my friends. Your talents did not go unnoticed. So, ah…” He twisted his fingers, fiddling with his hands nervously. “Thanks.”

She nodded, then tilted her head to one side, but when more did not come, she snorted. “You came all of this way just to say thank you? Is gratitude so important to you?”

“No!” He shook himself, laughing. “Well, yes, but... That’s not _precisely_ why I came. Actually, I came to ask you to be my wife.” Her mouth fell open in shock. Immediately after the words left his mouth, however, he slapped his forehead dejectedly, then charged forward, swearing. “Damn it all, I’ve done it wrong. Forgive me, I’ve only done this once before.” He reached for her hand, soft, strong fingers wrapping about her palm. “Uzumaki Mito... will you honor me by being my wife?”

She was still so stunned that she couldn’t speak for several moments. Remembering herself, she jerked her hand away. She would do this man no honor, sullied as she was. This wasn’t right. His station was far too high above hers for her to feel right bringing him disgrace. “I have a child,” she informed him, trying to swallow her own disappointment. “I’m impure.”

He clapped his hands together and grinned. “Oh! Right! The child! Yes, yes, I know about the child. That’s actually part of the reason why I am here.”

She flared with a sense of protectiveness that transcended rational thought, thinking he may mean Momoka harm. Her eyes flew open in disbelief, and she actually started to believe she might faint. Surely this was some kind of fantastic nightmare... Was it possible that this was some kind of cruel joke? Had he come here to mock her for her circumstances? 

Dimly, she was aware that she was being unfair. No man would sail across the sea of whirlpools just to poke fun at her life. Another idea took hold. “No,” she uttered, unable to accept that tendril of hope. The proposition was too farfetched, too unbelievable. She didn’t dare hope that a stranger had come to save her, not when her true love had abandoned her to suffer disgrace.

He had the grace to look hurt, his expression completely wilting. “You won’t? Damn, I knew I was going to mess this all up!” He slumped, groaning with defeat into a nearby chair and dumping his head into his hands, a complete reverse from his cheerful mood. A dark cloud seemed to settle over his shoulders then. He looked veritably depressed.

Actually, the fact that she had hurt his feelings bothered her more than the possibility that she had been duped. Smiling seemed like a much more natural expression on him, as if a smile belonged on his face. It was then that she was randomly struck by recognition. She uttered a cry of surprise. “You’re the medic!” she exclaimed with amazement. “The one who healed the others on the battlefield!" 

He peeked at her from between his fingers. Then, after a moment of consideration, he brightened and straightened in his chair. He was slightly confused, though. “I thought I had said that already? Did I not say that?”

She pulled a chair from the other side of the room and sat it across from him, then hurriedly sat herself upon it, level with his eyes. “I think,” she told him seriously, “that you should start over, from the beginning.”

“So it’s not a ‘no’ then, not exactly?” Hope was refreshed so thoroughly in the depths of his dark eyes that she wanted to laugh. So much like a young boy, mercurial, leaping from ecstatic to miserable and back again at the drop of a hat.

She shook her head slowly, a smile playing at her lips. “Not yet.”

He grinned. “Excellent!” He shifted in his chair, bringing it closer to her, their heads bowed together conspiratorially. “I was married, once,” he explained in a low voice. “But my wife was captured by bandits and killed, a couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Thank you!” he responded enthusiastically. She marveled at how happy he could seem, after suffering such a loss. “I am saddened by her loss, but we were never in love, and I’m doing alright.” He shrugged.

“Why did you marry her, then?” she asked without thinking. Of course, she already knew; hadn’t she been destined for a similar fate herself, once upon a time?

His words confirmed her suspicion. “My father arranged it. She was from a clan that controlled vast resources of wealth, and my marriage to her gained the Senju access to valuable supplies. We still maintain a good working relationship with her family. So… I do not regret anything.” He smiled, then continued his story. “I am about to tell you something important that only my brother knows,” he went on in a quieter voice. “And regardless of your decision, I ask that you please keep it quiet.” He blushed then, and his eyes lowered. “I am unable to have children.”

Moved, her hand reached out and grasped his, wanting to offer support. Knowing firsthand how delightful Momoka could be and how fiercely she loved her daughter, she couldn’t imagine the pain and suffering he had endured in learning that. “Again, I am sorry,” she told him earnestly, meaning it.

“And again, I thank you.” He paused, then smiled. “Tobirama-nii-san was right about you.”

“Tobirama-dono? So he’s well?” His name flew out of her mouth, unable to contain her excitement. So, her old friend was alive? That was wonderful news! 

He grinned. “Just as much of a pain as ever! Now, where was I?” He pressed a finger to his chin, then after a moment exclaimed, “Aha!” and continued. “Naturally, as the chief of the Senju clan, certain things are expected of me. I need an heir. I tried to convince my brother, very hard actually, to take my place as leader, but he stubbornly refused. Instead, he suggested I come find you. He told me what had happened, that you had quietly withdrawn from the battlefield because you had an unexpected pregnancy and were worried for the safety of your child. He also mentioned that you hadn’t seemed keen on the idea of returning home.” He folded his hands over and encapsulated hers. “It’s not often,” he said, impassioned, “that I have the power to thank one such as you properly, but I think that this match could be mutually beneficial for both of us.” He kissed her hands. “Come with me, Mito,” he bade her, eyes alight with unfulfilled dreams. “I will claim your child as my own, and apologize for the shame it has brought to your family. I will say that you kept silent to protect me and the child, at my request, and that I sent you here to keep your safe. If you like, your family can believe we were already married, and we can have a proper wedding when you return with me.”

For a minute, she neither spoke nor moved, digesting his words and struggling to make sense of what it all meant. Detached from her voice, she asked, “You’re serious?” When he nodded solemnly, she leaned back in her chair, slumped with the weight of an impossibly large choice. Her thoughts raced so quickly that she couldn’t catch even one of them. “I need time to think,” she said finally, standing and moving toward the door.

He smiled reassuringly. “I know the weight of the decision you bear,” he told her gravely. “And this is all very sudden, isn’t it? Take as long as you need. Send a messenger to the shipyard. If you never wish to see me again, I’ll understand.” 

When she reached the door, fingers splayed against the wood grain, she asked over one shoulder. “Before I decide, though, I want to know: who was that man on the battlefield… the one you had me save?”

He was quiet for a moment, introspective. “He was my friend,” he told her. “I don’t wish to speak of it any further. But,” he added, “if you wish to know more, I will tell you all you need to know after we are married.” 

 _Secrets_ , she thought with intrigue. _The bread and butter of royalty._ And this one came with a price. Her hand in marriage for knowledge of the one that she loved. Well, she had secrets of her own, and she would not share either. If this man knew that her child was the child of his friend, would he rescind his offer? But, if he knew, then could he tell her of his friend’s whereabouts?

She had much to think on. “Very well,” she relented. “I’ll send for you.”

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait! It was lovely to meet you, Uzumaki Mito.”

She nodded and retreated to her rooms where Momoka was scribbling on the walls with a charcoal pencil. “Momoka!” she screeched. “Not on the walls!” She pulled the charcoal from the girl’s hands. Momoka immediately started crying. “I’m sorry, baby,” she cooed. “But that’s what paper is for.” She retrieved a sheet of paper from her bedside table and began sketching. 

Momoka’s wails began to die down, until she was hiccupping and watching her mother’s hand move with interest. After only a minute more, she had forgotten, and tried to tug the pencil from her mother’s hands. “Me,” she commanded. Mito relinquished the charcoal with a smile, and Momoka began scribbling over her lines instead, doing her best to copy the shapes that Mito had drawn with extreme concentration.

Crisis averted, she was able to direct her thoughts to the man who had offered her a way out. Her feelings were divided, and rightly so. On the one hand, there was Masaru, Momoka’s father, and a man who had made her feel loved and cherished, beautiful and special. He had incited her to feel good about being herself and opened her eyes to the splendor of love. He had begged her to marry him, and she’d agreed, knowing with a surety that transcended all reason that she would be blissfully happy to the end of her days to be joined with him forever. There was something otherworldly between them, the love of a lifetime, and the likes of which she would never find again. He had promised to find her if it took him his whole life, and from the power and presence that he commanded, she was sure that he would have ripped the world asunder until he had.

The troubling part was that he hadn’t, and the implications of that were what had been bothering her since the birth of their child. Had he left her and suddenly changed his mind? Was the power that existed between them a figment of her imagination only, a magic dispelled the moment he left her? _He didn’t look back,_ she remembered, now less understanding of that tiny detail than she was back then. _He didn’t look back to see me one last time._  

Maybe he was simply dead. Hashirama himself had seemed saddened to speak of his friend. 

... _Probably,_ he was dead.

And if he _was_ dead, he wasn’t coming, and if she denied Hashirama, she might never get off of this island. She was reminded of the promises of Tobirama and Touka, who had assured her that she was welcome to be among them if ever she felt a need to leave her family. Tobirama had been looking out for her even from afar, sending his brother and his brilliant plan to rescue her from an uncomfortable life at home. Her heart ached painfully in her chest at the potential that they might see each other again soon, for she missed her friends terribly. What she wouldn’t give for a night sleeping on the ground under the stars, listening to the laughter at the center of camp and the song of crickets in the darkness! 

And finally, she considered the man himself, for if she accepted his proposal, she would be his wife until the day she died. She would have to be faithful to him and loyal; his generosity, in her mind, was undeserved and a breath of relief. If she did this, she would not repay him by being ungrateful. She thought of his default smile, and it caused her to smile herself, thinking for a moment that perhaps if she did go with him, there was a chance that her life might be filled with laughter instead of insult. And, too, she thought of his quick turn into dismay, and knew in her heart that she could help to turn him around and fix the smile. _I can be useful to him,_ she knew. She had been reared in a wealthy household, lived a life of privilege, and learned a number of talents that would have use among his people. If she stayed here, much of her knowledge would go to waste. If she went with him, she would be the Lady of the Senju. 

The choice was a painful one to make either way. Either she held on fiercely to the hope that her true love would find her on a remote island village, suffering in Uzushio, or she submitted herself to the lie that Hashirama was the father of Momoka, and become wife to a man she did not know and could not love among the Senju.

On the floor, humming to herself a cheerful tune with a perfect melody, Momoka scribbled pictures of misshapen objects that were still undeniably trees. “Oka-san,” she asked, scooting around to regard her mother. Her eyes were wide with innocence and hurt. “Does ojii-sama hate me?” 


	14. Honor

When she met with him again, she fully expected for him to have dressed more formally. After all, inviting him back could have only meant one thing, and he’d want to look his best, wouldn’t he? Yet, he’d arrived in the same casual black attire that he had the first time. She wanted to feel annoyed and insulted, and even tried to be, for even without honor, she was still highborn and a lady. But what she settled on, bizarrely and oh so out of character, was _comfortable_. Perhaps being around someone who wasn’t so stiff-backed all the time would give her a measure of relief. He _did_ straighten when she entered the room, she noticed, but his posture melted entirely when his eyes fell upon the three year-old who stared at him from the level of her waist.

In that melted expression, Mito’s resolve turned to steel. That moment when his gaze met that of her daughter solidified her decision, for no sooner had his eyes fallen upon the girl than his entire demeanor changed. He sank into an easy squat, at eye level with Momoka, and the easy grin that he usually wore reached all the way through his eyes. “Hello there!” he crooned to her. “What’s your name?” His body radiated love and protection, and far be it from Momoka receiving _her_ hug, but _Mito_ found herself wanting to run into that embrace, and the unwelcome and unlooked for sensation took her breath away. Love and protection had been denied her for so long that she ached to feel it again, even if she were to find it in in the arms of yet another man that she barely knew.

Momoka turned around and looked up at her mother. “Oka-san, who is that?” she asked. She seemed to understand that Hashirama wasn’t to be feared, but until her mother had passed her judgment, Momoka would defer to her experience. Momoka was a good girl, and she trusted her mother to take care of her no matter what.

Mito took a deep breath and swallowed, then painted a smile on her face for her daughter. It wasn’t a perfect situation, but it would bring all of them peace at last. Even so, saying the words was difficult, and she needed to make them sound true. The deception they were building needed to be flawless. “That’s your father, Momoka-chan,” she told the girl, looking past her daughter’s shoulder to the man beyond and smiling reassuringly. “And he loves you very much.” The look she gave him commanded that he would do naught otherwise, and that this was a firm condition of her agreement.

As before, they had an entire conversation without saying what they really meant. He picked up on her cue and spoke to Momoka. “That’s right, Momoka-chan,” he told her. “Your oto-san loves you.” He held out his arms, the universal signal for a hug.

“I didn’t know I had an oto-san,” Momoka said to herself. She looked from the smiling face of her mother to the open arms of Hashirama and seemed to make a decision. She broke away from Mito and ran across the space between them, hurtling into the man with enough force to knock a grunt from him. His arms curled around her protectively, and Mito saw his expression deconstruct, laying bare emotions that he hadn’t intended to show. He shut his eyes tight and rocked the little girl and absorbed her into his body, a defensive gesture, and one she often made herself. For her part, Mito breathed a sigh of relief; it was obvious that her intended had a love for children, and immediately was enamored of her little girl. In fact, it looked almost as if he had been waiting his whole life for this moment; one might have thought she really _was_ his child. He held her as if she were the most important little person on this earth, as if she were precious. “I was hoping...” he said quietly, his voice thick, “but I didn’t know if you’d let me see her right away.”

Mito’s posture relaxed, feeling peaceful for the first time since she’d returned home. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Being a parent is a lot of effort,” she explained. “You’re not a fool, I know that, but you should know what you’re getting into before you commit to it.”

Hashirama stared at her, seeing her, seeing _through_ her. “I think you and I might be better suited than either of us initially believed,” he said, standing and lifting Momoka. She snuggled into his shoulder and petted his hair, strangely thoughtful for one so young. “You are wise, Uzumaki Mito, and I will be glad of your support.” He paused, sparing a moment to offer up another round of smiles for the toddler in his arms. “Is this a yes, then?” he asked, looking back to the mother of the girl who had already captured his heart. His eyes spoke volumes of adoration and promise. For a man that had never seen her daughter before in his life, he took to being her father as if he’d been born to it.

She took several deep breaths, relishing the scene before her. This was a memory that she wanted to savor. Eyes trained on the light of her world, happily contented in the guarding arms of the most powerful man in the world, she felt strangely safe. “It’s a yes, Senju Hashirama.”

His eyes widened only slightly in surprise when she showed up on the deck of the ship without a suitcase, holding Momoka’s hand and guiding her up the plank. He inquired, “Isn’t there anything you want to bring from home?”

Her answer: “This was never my home.” She flashed him a genuine smile, wondering if he knew what she meant. Overhead, the gulls dipped and sang, filthy birds whose bodies incubated disease. The scent of decayed fish hung heavy in the air. The forest that the Senju had made their stronghold called to her, even from over the treacherous sea. She’d never liked the ocean anyway. Beneath that layer of inky blackness lurked all manner of secrets and traps, and it reminded her too much of her childhood home.

He met her at the ship’s edge and held out both hands. She lifted her daughter and deposited her into his arms, and he hugged her tightly, the little girl’s arms automatically winding around his neck. He smiled by default, unable to help it when she was near. With one arm, he secured the girl, and with the other he reached out to Mito. She accepted the chivalrous gesture, allowing herself to be guided onto the boat as it pitched deep in the swell, smiling her thanks as she carefully placed her feet.

“Do you wish to know anything about me?” he asked her as both of her feet found purchase on the slippery deck. The question jarred her, for it was an echo of another man, years ago, who had asked the same thing.

She didn’t wish to make the same mistake twice. “As much as you will tell me,” she answered him. “I think we should put Momoka-chan down for a nap first, though. It’s safer belowdecks.”

He nodded and led the way. The belowdecks was cramped, but tidy. There was the strong scent of the sea in the stale air, and the captain of the vessel had made no effort to mask it. When they crossed the threshold to their cabin, however, there was a different scent, musky and human. She flared her nostrils, inhaling it, for it was the scent of a well lived in room. This was _his_ domain, at least temporarily, and his scent, too, was a part of him. It was a clean, fresh smell faintly reminiscent of the vast forest that beckoned her in his country, she found she preferred the air of his cabin to the environment just outside.

How was it that a place could _smell_ of safety?

The cabin itself wasn’t much. There was only a single, narrow cot on one side and a trunk on the other. Still juggling the child in his arms, Hashirama removed the lid of the trunk and set it aside, then flapped and arranged his only blanket within. “She can sleep here,” he offered. “It’s plenty big enough.” With that, he lowered her with care into the large wooden box. She had already dozed off, though, and he had to gently pull at her hands to unravel her from his neck. “Off you go, little one,” he murmured. “Pleasant dreams.” Heedless of the eyes upon him, he leaned down and kissed her brow, then carefully tucked the edges of the blanket around the sleepy girl. He seemed, for a moment, to have forgotten Mito was even there, and spent a few moments watching Momoka twist her fingers in the fabric and tug it up to her chin.

Mito’s arms were wrapped around her shoulders as she, too, watched her darling child fall asleep. When he stood and their eyes caught again he shifted on his feet with a sudden shyness. “I had hoped,” he spoke very quietly, “back when I married Shizen, that our first child would be a girl.” The intimate confession touched Mito, especially considering the value placed typically on female children, and her lips broadened into a small smile. “I know you won’t believe this, but I love her already. I see so much of you in her…” he trailed off, eyes drifting back to her face. “I feel honored, truly, that you’re both here.”

Hashirama was tugging at her heartstrings. But now, years more mature and tempered by the suffering of being alone as a result of her tryst, Mito was wary. She no longer trusted her feelings, for they had failed her before. She wrapped her arms tighter about her body and regarded her husband-to-be. “You’ve done too much already,” she offered politely. “No matter how many lives I’ve affected, I’m not sure I can ever repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

He shrugged and tried to act humble. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed, his eyes drifting lower.

It was a look that struck her as keenly familiar, and another dangerous twinge of feeling squeezed her heart. She knew that his look was like her own, unaccustomed to compliment, vulnerable, the look of one who was unsure that they had any worth. She acted, unaware of what she was doing until she stood before him. He raised his eyes back to her face, his smile slipping into a crooked frown, and her hands rose to his cheeks. She smiled to reassure him, and his own lips twitched in response. He was… different, she realized. The only man she had ever truly known had been possessed of a confidence that was so strong that it scared her, sweeping her along in his storm, making her dance in the rain. The eyes that appraised her from the face of this man were… unsure. Nervous.

With a shock, she realized it must have been because he had never loved before, even if he had been married. The force of that knowledge injected her with her own source of confidence. In this, between the two of them, she surpassed him in experience. Without thinking too hard on it, she tugged his face down to hers and kissed him. At first, he did nothing, thrown off kilter by the suddenness of her actions, his posture going rigid. And then, when she did not break contact, he relaxed, the tension easing from his shoulders, his lips softening against hers. It was… nice. A kiss that comforted her, rather than inflamed, and she was glad that she had done it.

For the second time in her life, she found herself facing a man that would call her wife. Her entire life had been guided toward that ambition. Every lesson she had endured from her family had led her to believe that her purpose was to serve her husband. So, when he did not reject her kiss, she stepped in closer, exploring the new body with curious and dutiful hands, opening her energy to invite him, offering herself.

When he realized what she was doing, however, he gripped her shoulders gently and disentangled them both. At times, she had thought he was nervous and inexperienced, but in this she saw that she had misjudged him. His eyes, so full of gentleness and understanding, held her at arm’s length. “Mito,” he said to her softly. “I will not sully your honor in this way.”

She blinked, confused, the rising spell between them broken. She wanted to tell him that she was already sullied, that the damage had already long since been done. She was a woman without honor, a _whore_ \--hadn’t her father told her that often enough? He must have seen her confusion, so he chose instead to hug her close. “I promise,” he whispered into her ear, “that it’s not because I don’t want you.” Still reeling, she returned the embrace, overwhelmed by the denial of what she had understood was a simple truth: that she was a body, an object to be given away. Eyes wide, she let herself be hugged; he was warm and comfortable, and in time, she relaxed in his grip, eased. He stroked her hair and continued to hold her, as if he was well aware of the internal struggle she was experiencing in his grasp and was trying only to offer comfort. “We can lay here, if you like,” he suggested. “But the rest of it can wait until we are married. Would that be alright?”

Dizzy and--if she was honest--rather shocked, she nodded. He pulled away, causing a sudden and surprising emptiness for lack of his embrace, drawing her toward the cot with him. He lay down upon it, his back against the cabin wall, and guided her to sit between his legs. As she lowered herself, he kept pulling, until she, too, was facing away from the wall, her back flush against his chest. He covered her with his arms, and held her against him, his face lowering into her hair, and he breathed deeply. As his chest rose and fell, so too did she, a motion as comforting and gentle as the easy rock of the ship itself.

Mito, for her part, still too stunned to speak, curled her fingers around his wrists, taking in the whole situation from start to finish while she stared at his toes. His heart pounded against her shoulder blade, and beneath the curve of her back, she felt the evidence that he had not been lying; he did, indeed, want her, and yet he had resisted his own desire. What she couldn’t figure out was _why_.

“You’re upset,” he observed dubiously, his breath rushing past her ear and sending shivers to deep places.

Was she? She wasn’t sure. “I’m… confused,” she admitted honestly. He at least deserved the truth.

“Why?” he inquired.

How was she supposed to say it? “I… don’t know. I guess I just thought that… it was expected of me?” Her cheeks felt hot.

His breathing stilled for a time, his heart slowing as he thought about it. When he spoke again, Mito heard the color of anger in his voice. “Is it because of who I am, or because of what has been done to you?” he asked tensely, his voice strained. Helplessly, she did not answer, for she didn’t quite know. If she had to hazard a guess, it was because she was damaged. “Mito,” he said softly, squeezing her. “All I want from you is what you _want_ to give me, and until that is what you want, honestly, I won’t take that from you.”

A knot formed in her throat, and she voiced the concern she had harbored privately earlier. “I have no honor,” she stated bitterly. “I have already lost that.”

He buried his lips in her hair and kissed her hard. “Your honor is based on your heart, Uzumaki Mito, not your body,” he corrected fiercely, his voice trembling. “And you have more honor in your little finger than any woman I have ever met.”

They’d never met; it was impossible that he should believe that he knew these things. And yet, the knot in her throat choked her, and her fingers dug into the skin of his arms, holding fast to the welcome source of the destruction of her most basic truth. The beginnings of a fresh power started there, in that moment. She was given the power of authority. No one would disrespect her in any way, ever again.

In the back of her mind, the hope she had for the man that had loved her and left her, whatever his reasons, fizzled away. It was time to start letting go. She cried.

And all the while, Hashirama calmly waited, holding her and wiping her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving you this chapter much more quickly, because the multitude of Skywinder's comments gave me a much needed jolt of happiness and thrill for this story. Then I went back and reread the rest of it from this point forward, and now I am anxious that you should have the rest. 
> 
> And then I literally had one of the best days in RL of my life, in which everything was funny and made me laugh, and that sexy new chapter from CountessMillarca's "Vicissitudes" had me giggling like an idiot. 
> 
> Never underestimate the power of your kudos and your comments, readers. Without them, I literally just quit writing. If I wanted to talk to myself, I wouldn't need a fanfiction site to do so.
> 
> Thanks, Skywinder. Readers like you are so, so appreciated. You're very special to me. Most people in my real life don't give two shits about me and my writing habit. A shame, really. So when I get to come online and read your comments, it brings me a great private joy that I have no one to share it with but you. 
> 
> This is my solace. I need it. Much thanks. <3


	15. Celebration

There was a pronounced distortion of the air just outside her tent. And then, the most welcome voice she had heard in ages piped up from outside. “Don’t suppose I could come in, before you’re all married and stuff?”

Her eyes bulged with surprise, and she leapt from her chair. “Tobirama-dono!” she shrieked, throwing open the tent flap and inviting him in. The moment he was inside, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “It’s so good to see you!” Then, she realized that she was on her tiptoes and blinked. “You’re taller!” she shrilled, laughing. Of course he was. He hadn’t quite finished growing up when she knew him last.

“Easy, easy!” he laughed, pointedly keeping his hands from touching her. “If you had wanted to marry me, you should have said something before I gave you away to my brother.” At her raised eyebrow, he cracked a smile and shook his head. “It was a joke! And yes, I am older now. It happens as time passes.” He paused, then raked her over with his eyes, nodding approval. “It suits you,” he assessed before his strange red eyes returned to her face.

Absently, she picked at the edges of the fabric. It wasn’t as elaborate of a kimono as the occasion called for, but the season was hot and muggy and she was glad for the fewer layers of fabric. It was a plain cream color with pale blue stylized clouds, and she liked it very much. Not bad for a hastily purchased outfit from a coastal village. “Thanks,” she murmured appreciatively, giving it a swirl.

“How have you been, Uzumaki-san?” he asked her, his face growing serious. She recognized the expression, for he had worn it often years ago when she had been an addendum to the Senju forces. Tobirama might not have trained as a medic, but he could be a pretty effective psychologist when he chose to.

 _Right_. She then remembered that the last time she had seen him, Tobirama had been keenly aware of her abhorrence of returning home. He would want to know how she had been treated, to know if he had done right by plucking her out of there. Her smile sobered into a flatline as well, and Tobirama read everything he needed to know in the flight of that smile. He bristled, apparently ready to go to war for her. She didn’t want him to blame himself, though. They had argued a little about whether she should go or not; if she’d been completely honest, Tobirama might burden himself with guilt. “It was rough,” she voiced, trying to make lighter of it than it actually was. That time was past. No use fretting over it now. “But we’re alive.”

A look passed between them, one of regret and of hope both. Regret, that she had ever had to leave them in the first place, cutting her off from their friendship and support, and hope that the future might prove brighter. “He will make you happy,” Tobirama promised. “He is not capable of doing any differently.” He laughed, caught up in some far off memory. “He will only see the best in every situation, and he seems to live to make others happy.”

The dam on Mito’s emotions broke, made weak by the presence of this person who had cared for her, and she confessed her fears. She trusted Tobirama implicitly, and he knew Hashirama better than anyone. He was a valuable confidante. “I am worried…” she admitted slowly, hesitantly, her voice growing continuously quieter, “that I might not… learn to love him.” Her arms wrapped defensively about herself, a habit she was still unable to break.

Tobirama took a step closer, enfolding her in another hug. “Uzumaki-san… he is impossible not to love. You will see.” He kissed the top of her head. “You look lovely tonight. To us, you are a princess about to become our queen. Smile and enjoy it, okay? You’ve just landed the most eligible bachelor in the world and you didn’t even have to flutter your eyelashes at him.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Women the world over will envy you.”

“I doubt it,” she denied, allowing herself to be hugged.

“You’ll see,” he vowed.

“You’re so confident,” she observed. “How can you be so sure?”

He sighed with contentment. “He frustrates me, sometimes, because he is so optimistic, but it’s good for me, too.You don’t know him well yet, Uzumaki-san, but I’m sure you’ve already felt it.” She didn’t deny it, because she had. “Hashirama has a… a _way_ about him. You can’t help but love him. You can try to hate him all you want, and you will find that you cannot. And in growing to love him, you will see yourself through his eyes, and you will realize all of a sudden that you love yourself, too.” It was a surprisingly candid conversation for him; Tobirama seldom spoke about himself and his private thoughts. They were silent for a time, and then he laughed again to himself. “You don’t even know it yet, Uzumaki-san, but you really are the luckiest woman in the entire world... You trust me, don’t you?”

_You trust me, don’t you?_

She didn’t want to remember Masaru now. The tacit rejection still stung deeply. But on the eve of her wedding, she couldn’t help but remember the one she was supposed to have had already, and she was silent, though she nodded.

“Will you let me give you away?” he asked, then. “In place of your father, I mean.”

The image of Tobirama in formal clothing instead of armor was amusing. In her imagination, she saw him with an intensely uncomfortable expression and scratching at a stiff collar. “Yes,” she agreed, smiling for real.

“Good. We’re glad to have you back, Uzumaki-san. Truth.” He retreated, then, leaving her with her own private thoughts.

“Tobirama-dono…” He had already ducked out of the tent again when she stopped him again. There was one more question for which she needed to have an answer. The tent flap shivered and his face peeked back in. The red eyes were curious, supportive, ready for anything. He smiled reassuringly and waited. For a moment, Mito considered not asking her question… but if anyone was going to give her a straight answer, it would be Tobirama. She took a deep breath. Looked away. “What if he comes back?” She didn’t have to say who she meant.

Tobirama’s expression softened. “You’re an intelligent and moral person, Uzumaki-san. I have the utmost faith in that you will do what you believe is right.”

She smiled crookedly and nodded. He smiled back and disappeared again, but she didn’t feel reassured. The truth was, just as she was preparing to wed someone else, Mito’s heart was rebelling. The heavy knowledge was settling upon her that, once she did this, there would be no going back. The end of the dream that was Masaru and Miyu was nigh, and her heart was breaking all over again.

The rest of the night was more melancholy than joyful, but she did try. It would be good practice to hide her feelings, anyway. She would probably need that skill more in the coming years as the wife of a clan leader.

A small wedding ceremony had been her idea, and he’d been supportive of that. Her father had always insisted upon a lavish and expensive one, and with every additional detail he had tacked on over the years, Mito had come to dread the whole affair on principle alone. Weddings seemed a colossal waste of money, in her eyes, for so much went into a single day that could be better spent on practical matters, like medical supplies or food for the hungry. That she should have rose petals spilling over the edges of the tables and a thousand floating candles in the Uzumaki fountains seemed grossly unfair when elsewhere people suffered. In her mind, the marriage itself was far more important than an expensive party to feed anonymous guests. And she didn’t much appreciate being on display, either, to be judged on the cut and material of her dress or the paint upon her face.

Besides, she wasn’t exactly thrilled to be marrying him in the first place. It was awful to consider, but there it was.

“It is expensive, isn’t it? You make a very good point, Mito,” Hashirama had said thoughtfully when he’d finally coaxed an explanation out of her, though she wisely left that last reason out. Community service was apparently a hobby of his, and one she could appreciate. And he, too, confessed that he didn’t much like all the attention. So instead, he’d commissioned a local magistrate and purchased enough to feed their small entourage. They were married quietly and with little fuss, and she was glad for it.

To his credit, Hashirama hadn’t been nervous at all, perfectly calm throughout the entire ordeal. Mito hardly remembered any of it. She said the words when it was time to say the words, knelt at the altar when it was time to kneel at the altar, held his hand when it was time to hold his hand, and kissed him when it was time to kiss. Before she knew it, it was all over, and she still couldn’t decide if she was marrying the right man or the wrong one.

There was no party, just the three of them and Momoka and the few Shinobi that Hashirama had brought with him. They feasted on food bought in town and drank sweet red wine to wash it down, a rare exception to their adherence to the Shinobi values. Sensing her disconnect, Hashirama deflected the attention from their union to matters that were more pressing, for there was talk of an imminent battle with the Uchiha back at home. In fact, Tobirama had spirited himself here only for the evening, and would need to return soon. Mito, studied in the ways of politics, listened politely, trying to gauge the current events for herself. She was a part of this bitter duel now, whether she liked it or not. Wisdom dictated that she should acquire an awareness.

“He’s going to attack tomorrow,” Tobirama said in a low voice, pointedly avoiding his wine. He was different, Mito noted, around Hashirama. Around her, Tobirama had always been easygoing, if a bit protective, and she had always appreciated his company. Hashirama was already that, though, and far more, so Tobirama had apparently taken on a more balancing role. Knowing Tobirama, it was a conscious decision to keep his brother grounded. Their differences were evident in their conversations, and she found it interesting to observe. “It’s now or never, Hashirama,” he stated gravely. “They’re getting too strong. The risk is too great.”

 _He_. Uchiha Madara. The fearsome leader of the Uchiha. _They_. The Uchiha. The Senju’s bitter enemy. It seemed to Mito that this war might never end; it had been waging since long before any of them were born.

“How can you be sure?” Hashirama asked seriously, tracing the rim of his glass with an idle fingertip. Mito’s eyes followed its movement… circling around and around, occupying her eyes to avoid looking at the man because she was unsure how to feel.

“They’re stirring,” Tobirama answered simply. “Like a bees’ nest. They’re busy over there.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, noisily. “It’s going to be tomorrow.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. She preferred not to see him like this, she decided. He seemed detached, without emotion. The Shinobi way of suppressing their feelings had always seemed unappealing to her, almost inhuman, as if their feelings didn’t matter and should never be a part of their lives. She much preferred when he was making fun of her. They worked well together, though, he and his brother… a team that had formed more than a decade past. “It’s going to be bad,” Tobirama added, staring at his elder brother. His eyes slid momentarily toward Mito, then back to Hashirama. “We should make preparations tonight,” he finished, “for our plan. You said that if yours wouldn’t work, we could try my way this time.” In those subtle flickers of eyelid and pupil, a message was passed. She wished she knew what it was, but the secretive ways of the Shinobi were unfamiliar to her. One day, she vowed, she would be able to pick the meanings out of every facial expression, every unsaid word, and every omission. She was the educated, highborn wife of a Shinobi and a clan chief; if anyone should be skilled at learning such things, it should be her.

Hashirama frowned and stared at the table, but said nothing. After a moment, he glanced her way, and her attention flicked away from his finger to meet his stare. _Why is he staring at me?_ she wondered as she tried to divine his meaning from cryptic eyes. her eyes dropped first, uncomfortable holding his gaze, and so she missed his smile. “We won’t make it in time the usual way,” he commented at last. A high pitched, crystalline sound rose from the rim of his glass as his finger traced. “You can take me with you tonight,” he told him. “Mito and Momoka-chan can stay here.” He turned to her, and she held his gaze this time. “Do not go anywhere,” he commanded. “I will leave these three here to protect you.”

She nodded, numb. She would have thought that she didn’t mind the thought of him leaving. They were on amicable terms, but as to the prospect of a romantic relationship, she was still feeling indifferent. Yet, when he declared suddenly that he was leaving, she realized too late what he had been asking with his eyes: _can I come to you tonight?_ And in looking away, she had denied him. Somehow that provided relief, but also a newly bloomed sense of fear. The words “Be careful” left her mouth before she realized what she was doing.

But he smiled at her, and made a promise, and she hated those already. He stood, leaving half a glass of wine and an empty plate, the scuff of his chair oddly disconcerting. He kissed her chastely on the top of her head, his lips lingering like a declaration of subdued disappointment, and she felt a lance of emotional pain when she realized that there was a chance that he might not come back. Where before she had been relieved to sleep alone tonight, now she found herself wishing he would stay. When he moved away, taking his warmth and his smiles with him, she felt colder and more alone.

 _Hashirama has a way about him,_ Tobirama had said. He, too, gripped her shoulder only a moment, fondly, but there were no smiles this time. The men were off to fight the war that she had fled years prior. There was that sucking vacuum sound as the two whisked away into nothing together, and she realized painfully that, although she had left the war years ago, these two were still living it constantly. Her eyes fell upon their abandoned wine glasses, and she gathered them to her, glaring at the other Shinobi and daring them to judge. They lifted their hands in surrender and said nothing as she drained her wedding guests’ glasses as well as her own, trying to numb the sick sensation in her belly that the world might be a darker place tomorrow for the absence of two as great as them.

Feeling pleasantly fuzzy, she went into their tent to lie down, holding Momoka tight to her chest. Her daughter protested halfheartedly, mostly asleep, and Mito shushed her quietly. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered, kissing the girl’s soft, dark red hair. “And pray for your oto-san’s safe return.”

Momoka took a deep breath and whispered back, “Come home soon, oto-san,” before going right back to sleep. Mito said a prayer, too, one silent tear trailing down her face, before she, too went to sleep.


	16. Destroyer

Madara stalked through the camp, officers and messengers falling into his wake like leaves swept up in a current. They struck with rapid fire questions, asking for his command, then melded immediately back into the crowd as he answered in one or two word answers. “Yes. No. Wait. That one. Bring it. Not there. Flank. Later. Leave me.” He snapped out commands, wearing the mantle of leadership like a crown, sweeping through the ranks of his men with an aura of rising menace.

Since he had heard she was dead, Madara’s mercy had died. He had cut across the country like a blazing virus, destroying everything in his path, without discrimination or remorse. Every free moment he had was spent honing deadly illusory techniques with Izuna, the two men bent on mastering an ocular jutsu that had never been seen before, bound by a grim determination to settle the score once and for all. Only one army could be responsible for the death of the one he loved, just as it had always been between Uchiha and Senju. Hashirama would pay with his life, but first…

The Uchiha ravaged any clan that opposed them, no matter the size, decimating villages, rendering entire bloodlines completely extinct. No pity. No mercy. All the while, the soft hearted Senju army dogged their steps, engaging them in battle whenever possible, an attempt to stem the tide of bloodshed. North, west, south, and now east, arcing in a complete circle far and wide. They avoided fighting the Senju at every opportunity, mowing over the smaller clans as they pathetically attempted to defend themselves, occasionally turning just long enough to clash with their rivals and disappear back into the shadows.

Madara smirked, hoping that Hashirama was as distressed as he had intended. The entire plan was devised to burden his old friend with guilt. _You are the reason for this,_ he willed the other to believe. _And now look what you’ve made me do._

His father’s councilors had finally warmed up to him, for they saw in him the unbridled ambition of a man with no mercy. In their eyes, he was the embodiment of Uchiha pride; he had the talent, the stamina, and the carriage of a true leader. They overlooked the brutal path of destruction that was visited upon innocent lands because within it, they saw fear and respect in the eyes of their enemies. The Uchiha were more fearsome than ever, stronger even than the Senju; their foes quaked at the mere sight of their crest, and in this they could all rejoice. His clansmen obeyed without question now, and in their solidarity they also found strength.

The Senju would be no match for them now, but though he yearned for the day he could crush Hashirama beneath his foot and make him beg for mercy, he was resisting. In doing so, he only heightened the pleasure of his fantasies about it. When he could finally exact his vengeance, it would be utterly sweet, blissful ecstasy. 

Then, and only then, could he mourn her properly.

But now, they were ready. It ended here, today. Izuna fell in at his side, and the two acknowledged the other’s presence silently. They had long since become equals, and Madara valued his shrewd opinion more than any other. More importantly, though, he was the only one who knew the real motivation that drove their furious clan leader. Second to Madara himself, Izuna was the most pissed off about it, too. Miyu had made Madara happy, and in his mind the Senju had robbed his brother of that chance at happiness. Throughout their lifetimes, Madara had been glad to have Izuna as a brother, at various points and for different reasons, but Izuna’s support at this juncture was invaluable. He was the only person left in the world that Madara cared anything about. Without him, Madara would have already been lost; Izuna reminded him that there was still something worth living for, a reason to purge this world of all of its evils.

“How are your eyes?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Madara’s gaze darted about, flickering to make sure no one could hear. “You know not to ask me that,” Madara warned, agitation lending an edge to his voice.

“And you know I wouldn’t, either, without good reason,” Izuna insisted with concern.

Madara stopped, and Izuna stopped with him. They regarded each other, and, hesitantly, Madara attempted to focus on his brother’s eyes. They were black, as they usually were. Izuna never activated his Sharingan until he needed it. If only Madara had exercised that same caution, maybe none of this would have ever happened. The Mangekyou had frightened his subordinates; keeping it activated at all times reminded them all that he was not to be questioned, nor his time wasted. Memories of ghastly, inextinguishable flames did wonders for obedience. Madara was either the incarnation of the Devil Himself or God, but in either case they dared not cross Him. Under Madara’s careful scrutiny, Izuna didn’t even flinch. They had done this hundreds of times; trying to focus on Izuna’s pupils was his self-test. How were his eyes, indeed. “Fine,” he lied as agony lanced through his skull for attempting to focus so hard.

Izuna saw through it, as he always did. His brow crinkled with concern. “Madara,” he warned.

Madara blinked several times, trying to focus. Only they two knew the truth of it: Madara was going blind. It wouldn’t be long now. He could only see a narrow path straight in front of him, and all of the edges were fuzzy and dark. His brother was a shadow in front of shadows. It was exceptionally dangerous, which was why Izuna was worried, but Madara did not care. The Mangekyou was his most powerful weapon, and he needed it in the war that he faced. There was no way he could defeat Hashirama without it. “We’re not arguing about this now,” he snapped at his brother.

“You could be killed,” Izuna insisted, ignoring the command. Izuna was the only one who got away with that.

Madara squinted as he invaded Izuna’s personal space. “I will _never_ be killed,” Madara hissed into his face, irritation stirring his blood to anger.

Izuna stared at him, searching his face. Madara was reminded of the standoffs between himself and his father, but all it served to accomplish was renewing his bitterness at the entire situation in general. History kept repeating itself, trapped in a cyclic illusion all its own. _It ends with me_ , he told himself, an echo of his late father. _Whatever it takes, I will end it all._ Instead, he plastered the lies on his face. They came so easily now. Izuna only had the barest inclination as to just how bad the damage to his eyes was. Whenever he could, Madara ignored the problem entirely. Izuna was worried about him; worry would make him careless, and carelessness was too often fatal. With a fake smile upon his lips, he punched Izuna lightly on the shoulder and relaxed his voice. “It’s already getting better. I’ll be fine before we even get started.”

Izuna shook his head, determined and wholly unconvinced. “I’m leaving the vanguard in Mura’s hands,” he declared.

Madara’s smile slipped. “No,” he said firmly.

Izuna leveled him with a look. They both knew it was a bad idea; that was the point. Mura was an excellent captain, even at only fourteen… but he was a range fighter. The vanguard was no place for him. Izuna always led the vanguard. He was a clever and capable commander, and his understanding of risk versus reward had saved lives. They both knew why he was abandoning his post. Izuna wasn’t buying into Madara’s lie and intended to be his eyes. “Call this off,” Izuna demanded quietly.

“I can’t,” Madara denied stubbornly. They stared at each other, neither relenting. Izuna could be extraordinarily stubborn sometimes. They were brothers, after all. With a sigh, he finally relented. “Put Hiro at the vanguard, then,” he decreed. “And promote Taiki to commander of Hiro’s unit.”

Izuna let loose a breath of relief. “As you say.” He dashed off to do as he was ordered.

Madara watched him go, a pit forming in his stomach. He had wanted to fight alone against Hashirama. With Izuna there, he’d need to be more careful than he intended. _There’s nothing to be done,_ he thought finally. Tobirama would probably be there, too.

The pit in his stomach turned to ice. Tobirama did not share Hashirama’s disposition to the Uchiha. He was just as dispassionate as Hashirama was compassionate, far removed from any kind of human sentiment. Where Hashirama might show mercy and often held back, all of the ferocity he might have employed seemed to have been given to his younger brother so that he could have extra. Tobirama was _extremely_ dangerous.

At last, he reached his tent. His katana leaned against a post outside. He snatched it up, securing it to his person as he walked. On this edge of the camp it was eerily quiet. The only sound was the rasp of his sandals in the dry soil and his own breathing. A sense of calm washed over him, as it always did just before he stepped onto a battlefield. It was his way of mentally adjusting to the violence that needed to be done. First, there was a settling of peace, his mind clearing of everything except the task at hand. The moment he saw the enemy stretched out before him, that calm was invariably replaced with a throbbing sense of excitement. His heart pounded, the blood pulsing in his ears, and he felt alive. It was only in battle that he could feel even a modicum of the energy he had felt with _her_. Only in fighting and in victory that he could feel anything but dead inside. He was an addict, gorging himself on the clamor of steel and the cries of pain, more and more each time, feeding a beast within him that only grew hungrier with every bite but never cured the illness.

He raced forward, carving a path through Hashirama’s people, looking for the one he sought. These interlopers were of no interest to him, and he felled them without a second glance or moment’s pity. His Sharingan afforded a perception of the scene that few could imagine. The movements of his foes seemed to be in slow motion, for he perceived their attacks before they could even consider executing them. He was so far advanced from these pathetic mortals who called themselves Shinobi that he felt like laughing. The only reason he didn’t was because Izuna was there and might think him mad. Then, he’d really insist on calling off the fight, and they couldn’t afford the distraction. Together, two halves of the same coin, they split the Senju army down the middle, cleaving a wedge through flesh and bone, leaving a broken mess behind.

They spotted them on a rocky plain speckled with boulders at the same time, communicating in a swift flicker of hand signs, skidding to a dusty stop in front of Tobirama and Hashirama, their expressions severe. He savored this moment, for he had been longing for it these past two years and more. The thrill pulsed inside of him like a living thing, waiting to sink its claws into his prey. Hashirama’s expression was drawn tight, grim, as if he’d rather be anywhere but there in that moment. Tobirama’s cool exterior was a shell. He would be heartless enough for both of them, and it was he that would need to fall first. Another flicker of handsigns spoke his command: _I get Hashirama,_ he signed.

 _I have your back,_ he signaled back.

 _No,_ he mimed back. _Focus. He will focus._

_We should work together._

_We can’t._ Without waiting for his brother to try to change his mind again, Madara hefted his sword and charged forward. Hashirama met him calmly, the blade of his own katana striking Madara’s with a blinding flash of sparks. Madara kept his dimming vision trained on his opponent, though, and the sparks hardly pierced through his darkness. He felt rather than saw the incoming attack from Izuna, and waited for the pair of kunai to put an end to the Senju leader.

“Duck!” Tobirama urgently commanded, his vision unimpeded. Without hesitation, Hashirama ducked and sprang away, leaving Madara to calmly catch his brother’s weapons. In one fluid motion, he reholstered both weapons and cartwheeled further from Tobirama, meaning to at least put visual distance between them. He stared at Hashirama calmly, and his old friend returned his cool gaze.

“Madara--” he began calmly, but Madara cut him off.

“Save it,” he growled. “The time for words has long passed.” He advanced again, throwing a spray of shuriken for distraction. Instead of parrying them, Hashirama leapt out of the way again, crashing his palms together and calling up the will of nature itself. Sharp trees spined up from the earth like a garden of skewers, but Madara’s Sharingan would not be outmatched. He moved between them effortlessly, using their upward thrust as leverage to increase his own speed and power. When at last he had reached the last of the spires, Madara inhaled a deep breath. When he let it out, all the fires of hell roared forth, just as one of Hashirama’s creations writhed free of the earth, protecting him.

In the midst of it though, he heard a strangled cry from Izuna and felt the menacing presence of another behind him. He bit off the flames and turned just in time to deflect an attack from Tobirama, a man who was little more than a moving flash of monochrome. Having missed, Tobirama calmly turned to face him, coolly assessing and preparing another attack. At the last moment though, his eyes darted upward, and Izuna came hurtling over Madara’s head with a war cry, crimson eyes blazing with hatred. It was an unfamiliar emotion to see on his young face, and Madara was momentarily captivated with pride as his brother made his assault.

Until Hashirama called him back to the present. “Madara, you don’t have to do this,” he insisted, his voice strained. Behind him, his dragon made of wood reared up from the burning plain, coils writhing, its fangs bared and hungry, eyes as serene and patient as Hashirama’s own.

From where the other pair was dueling there was a flurried clash of steel, but Madara’s vision was obscured, and he could barely even focus on the dragon.

“He’s good!” Tobirama yelled urgently, though for what reason, Madara couldn’t fathom. It seemed a pointless thing to say in the heat of battle. “I can’t--!”

Hashirama’s face seemed blurry, but Madara could just make out the deepening of a frown line. “Please,” he begged. “Before it’s too late.”

Madara, heart pounding with the drums of battle, stared up at the wood dragon in awe. He weighed his options carefully to the cymbal crash of steel as two Shinobi of legendary talent clashed with intent to kill. Hashirama knew well by now not to look his rival in the eye; illusory genjutsu was out of the question, even if Madara could see the other man’s face. The wood dragon could strike as fast as lightning, for he had seen it himself in battle. He would not have time to ready a fire attack. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, he couldn’t see well enough without Izuna’s aid, and his temples pulsed painfully when he tried too hard to focus. At this point, it was go down fighting, retreat, or submit.

Izuna would tell him to fight.

There was the sudden roar of flames (Izuna), and an answering roar of one of Tobirama’s water dragons, followed by the expected hiss of steam. _Hn_ , thought Madara with condescension. In training together, they had prepared for that contingency, and water jutsu held no danger for Izuna’s advanced Sharingan mastery now.

There was a final ring of steel, echoing in his ears like a gong strike, and then there was silence. It was over, and a victor was declared. He dared not turn for fear of what Hashirama might do, for Madara himself knew he was beyond redemption. It was Hashirama’s choked back sob that had convinced him that their side had won. He smirked, high on victory.

Until Izuna’s voice was the one that gasped in shock, groaned in pain.

“IZUNA!” he cried, turning his back on the dragon entirely, completely uncaring of what happened to him now. He caught his brother before he fell, steadying him as he gaped in shock.“Hang in there. I swear I’ll save you.” He felt both of their eyes on him, but it seemed that for the moment, neither of them cared to lift a blade in his direction. The four of them had been brothers and had lost brothers, and no matter which of them had fallen, all of them felt the pain, dredging up memories that were as fresh as if they’d happened yesterday. Even Tobirama seemed momentarily stunned.

When he was able to tear his gaze off the sagging head of his brother, Hashirama was there, within striking distance. “Hashirama,” he growled under his breath, preparing for an assault.

The tip of his blade was pointed in their direction. “Madara… you can’t win against me,” Hashirama’s pained voice urged. He lifted his sword in an exaggerated slow motion, then dashed it upon the rock. “Why don’t we end this?” He paused, boring into Madara with those dark, serious eyes. “If the greatest Shinobi, the Uchiha and Senju join hands… the country will stop fighting other Shinobi clans to take us on, and one day the fighting will stop.” He held out his hand and beseeched him to join forces, as an ally. As they had always dreamed. “ _Come_.”

He felt cold and hot at the same time, twisted from within by a grief that already threatened to consume him. There was far too much blood. Izuna groaned in pain as the two Senju brothers looked on. Hashirama looked troubled, yet determined, his hand hanging between them. Tobirama might as well have felt nothing at all, for his face was suddenly a study in stoicism. Madara shifted the weight of his fallen brother, pouring his strength into him, willing him to hang on, as Hashirama sought to bait him with the very promises of peace that Uchiha Tajima had warned him against.

 _I’ve lost,_ he thought numbly, feeling the deep sting of defeat. _And if Izuna_ … the regular medics of the Uchiha clan were few in number. By the time he got his brother to a medic… but if he submitted to Hashirama now, maybe one of their medics could help…

He thought of their foolish dreams, as they had skipped rocks so long ago, boys only. Boys, forced to become Shinobi, but wanting only to be boys. All he had wanted to do was to protect his little brother, now dying in his arms while he struggled to make sense of _why_. Hashirama’s patience lasted, his stony, lined face a later version of the boy he had laughed with. It seemed so long ago… and yet…

He began to lift his foot, drawn forward by the intensity of the Senju clan leader’s plea, all warnings forgotten, for nothing at all mattered anymore except that Izuna should live.

Izuna’s chest heaved with a breath that took way too much effort. “Don’t, nii-san...” he struggled to say, lifting his chin as if his head weighed a hundred pounds.

“Izuna!” he breathed, willing his brother to stay still. _Don’t strain yourself!_ He hardly trusted his voice to speak, but he listened.

Izuna panted with the labor of every breath. “Don’t be deceived by them… Have you forgotten… that these bastards killed everyone… killed the Uchiha?”

His brother’s words pierced his reverie. If his brother was going to die, he wouldn’t defy his very last wish by handing him over to the Senju medics. His resolve steeled, and he jerked the entire pouch’s worth of smoke tags from his belt. With one last acid glare at the man who had once been his friend, and one last baleful stare at the man who had tried to take his brother away, Madara loosed the smoke tags and flickered them both away.

Far away, further even than their camp where it was still far too quiet, he lay Izuna down upon the tatami mat of their long abandoned home. It was here that they had been born; here where he had promised his mother that he would make sure to look after Izuna as she lay dying. His brow was sweating already with the strain of staying alive. Heartsick and empty, Madara was torn between hunting down a medic and caring for his brother himself. He wished now, too late, that he had insisted on that training that Miyu could have given him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, up to his elbows in blood and unsure what to do. “I can’t do anything about this.” Abruptly, he stood. “I’ll get a medic,” he croaked, feeling broken inside.

Izuna’s hand reached out and gripped his forearm, but his strength was already fading. “No time,” he rasped. “Anyway,” he added with a smile, “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” He panted, dying, and too quickly. “I can’t be saved. You’ll just be killing someone else.”

“No,” he denied hoarsely. “You _won’t_ die. We’ve worked too hard. We’ve come too far. You _can’t_ die, now, Izuna. I--” His mouth worked in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening! “I _need_ you.” His voice shook. His hands shook. Hell, even the world was trembling from the force of the war beyond.

“You can’t stop,” Izuna whispered fiercely. “I know you want to go to them, Madara, but you can’t. It will never work. Here, I will give you the power to stand up to them.” He let go of Madara’s arm and put his fingers over his eyes.

When Madara saw what he was about to do, he cried out in alarm. “Stop!” To rip out the Sharingan was unthinkable, _anathema!_ Izuna was ever quick, though, and he was heedless to his brother’s pleas. The sounds of it turned his stomach, and Madara felt thoroughly ill. He vomited, unable to stop it, as Izuna calmly plucked out his own eyeballs and held them aloft.

“Mine... were always better... than yours anyway,” he teased deliriously, struggling to breathe between words. “But... you did... always know... how to… use them best. Love...” His hand swayed in the air, weakening, and then, at last, his smile slackened and his wrist went limp. For one suspended moment, his hand remained vertical, but of a sudden, the muscle surrendered, and his hand began to fall.

Izuna’s hand fell into his own, and he curled around the hand of his dead brother protectively, grieving alone, crying tears of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who took my whining to heart and started leaving me messages. Even the little ones. ^_^ They really do make my day... they make me feel like I'm not just talking to myself... that there are real people on the other end here, reading my stuff. ^_^
> 
> And also, for whoever is interested, if you want to follow my NaNoWriMo progress, send me a message and I'll let you add me on FB. 
> 
> Thanks, Nana, for pushing me to update XD


	17. Union

She couldn’t sleep, not well, not after an entire day of not knowing what had happened over there. In the dead of night, she woke from a nightmare, gasping into the cool night air of her tent. She couldn’t even remember what it was about, but it left her with a dark sense of dread. After waking up drenched in her own sweat, she decided to abandon the notion of sleeping altogether. Instinctively, she looked over to where Momoka slept, in her own pile of textiles at the far edge of the tent. Her small chest rose and fell with the easy breathing of peaceful slumber. Mito smiled, glad of it.

 _Maybe some fresh air will help_ , she thought, rising from her cot. She dressed in a clean yukata and stepped outside. It was chilly and breezy, the mark of a spring evening, and the wind made her hair dance in the moonlight. Her current bodyguard—and she was back to forgetting names on purpose—inclined his head and offered an acknowledging wave. She nodded once in his direction and put some distance between herself and the camp. The trees in this area were large and sparse, trunks as big around as their tents, reaching high overhead to weave into great canopies, filtering the moon through a green lens to dapple the floor below. Back when she was a part of their cohort, they had stuck to the edges of the trees and in the fields. Forests were generally understood to hide enemies and traps, but this one was far removed from the fighting.

It was beautiful bathed in moonlight, and served to remind her that her husband’s clan was affiliated with the deep woods of the land to the southwest. She was inhaling the earthy scent of the forest floor, wondering if Tobirama and Hashirama were alive, when that same strange blurring sound snagged her attention. She was finally starting to recognize that sound as Tobirama strangely appearing and reappearing out of thin air, a technique he had apparently picked up while she was in Uzushio. Heart in her throat, she sprinted back to camp. As she arrived on site, Tobirama was emerging from her tent, his eyes darting to the Shinobi, who was pointing toward the forest, toward her. When his eyes settled on her, he breathed an obvious sigh of relief. “Uzumaki-san,” he greeted, relaxing.

He looked the same as ever, though perhaps a bit more emotionless than usual. She was used to a side of him that she no longer saw often, and was beginning to understand, too, that Tobirama wasn’t as lighthearted as he sometimes seemed. In fact, most of the time he was introspective, silent, and moody. “I couldn’t sleep,” she explained. “Where is my husband?" 

“Inside. He asked that I bring him to you, and then that I leave him be.” 

She swallowed, thinking from his explanation that she knew what he might want, but not sure if she was ready for it, still. “Thank you,” she muttered absently.

As she reached for the tent flap, he stopped her, leaning in close and lowering his voice to a whisper. “He has had a rough day,” he revealed. He offered a brief, concise explanation and an order, as was his way. “He might not tell you why. Don’t push him.”

“Of course,” she replied.

His voice returned to its usual volume, and he released her arm. “Uzumaki-san, since you’re a part of this family now, you should know when things are happening. I don’t worry that you won’t know what to do with pieces of information that are sensitive. You’re smart, and you know when you need to keep quiet and when you should offer suggestions. There will be conversations you are privy to now that you weren’t before, like this one we’re having now.” She nodded to show she understood. “I have to go back tonight. The Uchiha clan is in a state of... disarray. Their leader is missing and some of them have begun to defect to our side. If my brother isn’t going to be there, I will need to be. There is a lot to sort out in all the confusion, and it’s equally likely that they will use the chaos as an advantage against us and attack. With anonymous Uchiha now within our camp, it will be impossible to tell them apart, and we’re vulnerable. Will you be alright?” His gaze slid sideways, toward the tent, and the man within.

She almost hastened to say she was going to be fine, then she realized that he was being cryptic. He had picked up on the slight discord between the newlyweds and wasn’t sure if she was quite ready to be alone with him, especially when he was in such a state. She had had a lot of time alone to think, though, and was determined that she should be more open, especially with her heart, and with him. She smiled, feeling confident. Hashirama was usually happy, and laughing, but prone to the occasional foul humor. She figured that if anyone was going to have a talent for cheering him up, it ought to be her. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Please don’t concern yourself. You have a lot of responsibilities requiring your attention. I only have two.”

“I knew I could count on you. I’m very grateful to you, Uzumaki-san, for agreeing to this. It seems I’ll never be out of your debt.” With that, he blurred out of existence again.

She sighed, and disappeared within. He lay on his side, his back to the doorway. Unsure of what to do, exactly, she knelt beside his head and studied him. His eyes were unfocused, lost. “Hashirama?” She spoke as if she were talking to her child, all sweetness and caution. Shinobi sometimes toed the line of insanity when their thoughts were elsewhere, reliving some battle or other. When startled, they could sometimes attack without warning, unaware of where they were or that they were even attacking anything real.

He didn’t answer. Her medical training kicked in. She tested the temperature of his forehead with the flat of her hand, decided it was normal. She checked his scalp for signs of injury and found none. When she went to peel back his eyelids to check for pupil dilation, his strong hands gripped both her wrists. “My health is fine,” he told her definitively, his tone chilly, never making eye contact.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” she begged, making no move to escape.

He turned those eyes her way. They looked haunted and lifeless, pleading with her not to make him say it. “Can I just… hold you awhile?” he asked forlornly. “Please?”

Her brow crinkled with concern, peering into his eyes, divining the truth. He waited, ever patient, for her to decide to want him. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, then released slowly. He was hurting, somewhere inside. It was an emotion she herself had felt before, and so she recognized it in him. _Grief_. He had lost someone. Her curiosity begged the question of whom, but she remembered that Tobirama had said he might not tell her and not to press him. Still, her heart went out to him. He kept waiting, holding her wrists, begging for guidance.

He _needed_ her, she realized with no small amount of pride. He had asked to be brought all this way so he might seek comfort in _her_ care. She hadn’t given him enough reason to believe that she actually cared, and still he had risked it. That knowledge warmed her, and she wanted to deserve his faith in her. “Hashirama,” she offered softly, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather hold you.”

His lip trembled and his eyes unfocused again as he considered it. Then, nodding once, he released her. She scooted into a better position and stretched out her legs to get comfortable. Her skirts were rumpled, and improper, but she ignored it. “Just like how you held me,” she suggested, patting her lap. He stirred, slowly making his way in between her legs, tense and wary. Finally, he lay down between her knees, his head resting on one thigh just below her navel, curled slightly in on himself, like a frightened child in his mother’s lap. His long black hair spilled over her bared leg, . “Close your eyes,” she bade him quietly. He did. Took a deep breath, and sighed. She ran her fingers through his hair, surprised at how soft it was.

She had never seen him vulnerable before. In fact, she doubted that anyone had, except for maybe Tobirama. Her brow crinkled as she looked inward, learning things about herself she hadn’t known before. She would see her husband on a personal level much more than anyone else in his life would. She would see his fears, his burdens, his best moments and his worst. When he left her side, he would need to be the leader that everyone else expected him to be, but while he was with her, he would sometimes be everything else. Like now, when he was nothing more than a young man who had lost something and had no one to talk to about it. _Let me be here for you,_ she silently bid, willing herself to exude strength and support. _Let me share your burdens._ A deeper smaller voice peeped up, too… a new voice: _Let me see you always smiling, even if I have to hurt so that you don’t have to._

He relaxed at her touch and began breathing easier. “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his cheek into her bare inner thigh. He heaved a deep breath and released it slowly, but the hotness of his breath against bare skin caused her to shiver in anticipation. She felt the gentle pull deep within her of a sleepy, strong desire, waking, yawning, realizing where it was.

_Hashirama has a way about him._

She smiled for herself alone, beginning to understand. Still she didn’t know him all that well, but long ago, someone else had told her that he saw things in her face and in her bearing that told him everything he had needed to know about her, and had wanted to marry her that very night. Now, she cradled the face of the most powerful Shinobi that this age had ever seen. He was elegantly dangerous, and yet such a man was disturbed so deeply by the pain of others. She understood, now, what Masaru had meant, for in Hashirama she saw the reflection of a soul similar to her own, one she could accept… one she could learn to love.

 _I’m ready._ “Hashirama,” she murmured, smoothing back hair from his forehead.

“Hm?”

She tipped her head forward, hovering over his face. “If you’d like… to forget for a while…” she trailed off, planting a sweet, gentle kiss upon his temple and studying his face for a reaction, hoping she wouldn’t have to be too explicit.

At first, he didn’t react. Then, glazed, unfocused eyes sharpened with the dawn of understanding. For a moment he stopped breathing. Those dark pupils, deeper ebony in the faded light of the tent’s interior, peeked at her through the corners of his eye sockets, the pain banked. In the place of his personal agony was an awakened hunger, kept well hidden while she had tried to adjust to her new life. The intensity of his stare struck her to the core, and then _she_ stopped breathing. When the mood-altering lull was over, she scraped her nails against his scalp and he purred with approval. Both of his hands reached low, nearly to her ankle, and smooth, soft hands were placed against the sensitive skin of her legs. She shut her eyes and delighted as warm hands traveled languidly along the inside of one leg, dragging the hem of her skirt as he went, breathing life into sensitive nerve endings.

When the one leg was completely bared, exposed to the chill of the air, she felt the feather light touch of his lips against her inner thigh. She smiled, reveling in it; it had been a very long time since anyone had touched her at all, and Hashirama was attentive and gentle. He continuously traced light fingertips over every inch of that leg, kissing from ankle to the inside of her hip, just where the leg met her core. Then he pushed the leg out of the way, kissing deeper yet, and she gasped in amazement.

He chuckled, a barely audible hum deep within his throat, kissing up to her navel as far as he could go. “Do you want me to keep going?” he asked softly.

She smirked and whispered shyly, “Yes.”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her, visiting the same attention upon her other leg, flaring every nerve from the waist down and making the rest of her body envious with rapture. Her back bowed as she untied the obi and let the sash fall to either side, and he smiled his victory against the skin of her thigh.

Without warning, he gripped her thighs just above the knees and rolled, switching her places. The front of her yukata fell open, and his hands smoothed their way up her abdomen, cherishing, exploring. He was in no hurry, but every feather touch set her skin afire. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, and dove her fingers beneath the line of his shirt. He smiled, leaning forward just enough for her to tug it over his head. At last, she was able to put hands on his skin. He was warm, like a furnace in the chilly air, and she pressed her chest against his.

“It has never been like this,” he confessed against her breast. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

The admission made her feel confident and sexy, that she could have this effect on a man that had had other lovers. She scrubbed hands over the back of his neck, kneading tense muscles, feeling the puckered presence of battle scars as their bodies rocked together, drawing two souls closer and closer toward the goal of unifying. He leaned forward, pressing her backwards, so that her shoulders were parallel with the ground. His strong hands held her firm, so she did not fall, while he kissed a trail from her navel to the hollow of her throat as she groaned. “Take it off,” he told her neck, scraping his teeth against her collarbone, his face smashed against burning skin.

She shivered at his command and complied, allowing the yukata to fall over her wrists to pool between his feet.

He rolled them again, pinning her beneath him, his hair forming a privacy booth around their faces. For a moment, he just looked down upon her, forcing eye contact. There were times, before, when she would have looked away, disconcerted by the undiluted attention, but now… now, they were married, and the realization was sinking in, making her modesty seem silly. _He chose me,_ she thought with awe. Someone had actually wanted her, crossed the world to find her, and taken her to wife. She stared up into his eyes, so filled with impossible adoration, _for her_ , and felt the tilt of desire. They were the beautiful eyes of a wonderful man, and for a wonder, she actually felt lucky to be there.

His thumb trailed down the delicate curve of her jaw, seemingly just as smitten with her in that moment as she was with him. He kissed her then, a sweet, unhurried kiss rife with feeling, just as giving as it was consuming. Their lips melded, grazing, tasting, savoring every moment of it. Her lips parted, wanting a better taste, and their tongues met between.

He pulled away from her only long enough to shed his pants. Neither of them dared speak, caught up in a moment that might have been too fast for either of them, though neither would admit it. Their honor was protected by the bonds of marriage, and they _needed_ this, each for their own reasons.

He sank to claim her lips again, skin sliding slowly against skin, charging nerves with electricity and sending jolts of pleasure to secret, hidden places. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, only that Hashirama was clearly in no rush, to the point where _she_ was growing impatient and wild. Her hips bucked, trying to press needy places against him, begging for his attention as he continued his exploration elsewhere. She slid her legs up along his hip bones, positioning herself just right. She was ready, more than ready, and still he did not take her.

She began whimpering, fingers involuntarily opening and closing, digging into the firm muscle of his back. He nuzzled her ear and spoke, his hot, moist breath in her ear causing her body to tremble, shaking with need. “Do you want it to be over so soon?”

She groaned in response, grasping at the answer that eluded her. Did she, or didn’t she? She didn’t actually know. She ached deep within, needing him inside of her, a pulsating emptiness that made her wanton. His control aggravated her. How was he able to resist it? Was he unaffected? To answer her own question, she reached down, wrapped elegant fingers around his length. He hissed a deep breath through his teeth and rested his forehead on her chest. “Don’t,” he ordered, though he made no move to stop her. Pleased with herself, for she had elicited the response she had wanted, she ignored him, gliding inexperienced fingers greedily over skin that was deceptively soft, velvet over iron. An animalistic growl rumbled deep within his chest, and he repeated the word, more forcefully this time, his face hot on her skin. “Don’t.”

To her, it sounded more akin to _don’t stop_ , and she grinned mischievously, her pulse racing with excitement. Braver now, she removed her hands and raised her hips instead, barely touching him yet crazing him nonetheless. He sank predatory teeth into the tender skin of her breast, but whether he’d thought to encourage or discourage, all he’d succeeded in doing was making her body jerk instinctively, melting into the line of his body from groin to chest. He was _right there,_ neither pulling away nor making any move to take her, as if unsure himself which was the right choice.

Making needy sounds of her own, though, Mito had had enough. She hooked her ankles around behind him and tugged him down, and he finally surrendered, sinking into her and dragging gasps from both of their lips. The experience was exquisite and awe-inspiring, and for a moment neither of them moved, listening only to the pounding of their hearts and the rush of exerted breath. “Mito,” he whispered reverently, appreciating her face again.

A thrill coursed through her. She had never heard her name on a man’s lips before, but since she had liked it so much, she returned the favor, brushing fingertips across the lips of the man she had married. “Hashirama,” she returned, a happy smile blossoming on her face.

Her uncertainty drained away as they made love, slowly replacing the emptiness that Masaru had left her with the memory of Hashirama’s lips upon her skin and his ready smiles. She wasn’t quite ready to say she was in love with him--she was no longer that naive--but she knew that she would be, and that was enough for now.

As they lay there, unspeaking, fingers entwined, hair snarled, mutually smiling, he kissed the crown of her head, a simple senseless act of tenderness, and sighed with contentment.

All she felt was relief. That he was alive. That he had come back. That they had found something in the other that stirred them. It was in that quiet moment in time that she realized that she had married the right man after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just a quick update for writing things. I've mentioned I'm working on originals, now?
> 
> I've got all the social media outlets now, if you want to follow me around elsewhere. I'm Black Majjic Duchess on Twitter (as well as SKBalk on Twitter, my Real Me!), BlackMajjicDuchess on Tumblr, and I'm also on FB and Wordpress. Feel free to add me and look me up. This is all pretty exciting!
> 
> Hope you're all still enjoying the story. ^_^


	18. Simmer

Power coursed through his veins like a boiling river, and he threw himself into it to drown. His emotions were a deadly storm of violence, and he wanted no part in them. They hurt, deeply, completely. Having a heart was a curse. His was empty now. There was nothing left. He had thought that he had been hurting when he had lost Miyu, but none of it compared to the loss of Izuna, his last remaining little brother.

 _He was protecting me… but I was supposed to be the one protecting_ him _._ He had promised, another promise that he had subsequently broken.

His body was nothing but pulsating pain, a living demon unfurling within the stretched-to-aching skin. There was nothing left to live for… Izuna was gone. He felt hollow, like a phantom who hadn’t left the world yet and didn’t yet know it was dead. All he kept doing was gazing off into space, wondering if there was a chance he was simply dreaming, alternating between disbelieving numbness and blinding emotional pain.

He needed to lash out and destroy. Anything. Everything. All of the people around him, the traitors who had left his clan for the false hope provided to them by their enemies, and the insignificant specks that surrounded him now. Even Mura.

He stood, flexing aching fingers. _Someone_ was going to die. _Fighting_ had helped to ease the emptiness he had felt when Miyu was gone. _Killing_ might do something to alleviate the void left by his little brother. “Mura,” he said with the end of a deep sigh. “Get them up. We’re going.” 

 _Empty, empty, empty._ It hurt so, _so_ much.

Mura stopped adjusting the poison trap that he was working on, pushing the magnifiers up the bridge of his nose to rest on the top of his head. His black eyes narrowed slightly with curious interest. Since Izuna had died, Mura was the only one that Madara had allowed near him. Not even Mura would be able to understand Madara’s pain… but Mura was the last of his own brothers, the youngest of seven sons, and he had loved Izuna, too. Izuna had been the first to acknowledge Mura’s genius, given him a place in the world. He wasn’t Izuna’s brother, so he’d never understand the depth of Madara’s despair… but it was closer than anyone else could get, and someone needed to convey his orders to the rest. “Going where, Uchiha-sama?” he asked.

“To war,” he responded tonelessly. _To kill everything, simply for being unfairly alive._

Void. That was all he felt. A vast emptiness that used to be filled with love.

And through it, a boiling river.

* * *

 

She saw the smoke of their cook fires first, and the swell in her heart of homecoming was unmistakable. She should never have left them. She couldn’t afford to regret it, now… Momoka might only be alive because she had left and gone home, but her heart was in apparent disagreement. As they crested the last hill, a multitude of drab tents spread out before them, she felt lighter than she ever had. She’d been scared when she left home at sixteen, and terrified when she had arrived here the first time. It was a phenomenal amount of effort and stress, learning to save people in the heat of battle while not getting killed yourself. In time she had taken it for granted, and before she knew it, she was leaving and filled with sadness. She hadn’t been truly happy since.

Her eyes flashed, stealing a glance at her husband. He was watching her, gauging her reaction. Instead of looking away, she smiled at him, a genuine display of happiness. They shared a silent moment, reveling in the pleasure of sharing the same thought. It was happening more now, this mental connection. She was increasingly comfortable with his presence in her life, and the more time they spent together, the more they seemed to be able to speak without words. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, just a tactile reminder that he was there, and then he passed on ahead, and for a wonder, she understood him despite him never saying a word.

_I have to go on ahead. They’ve been waiting for me… but it’s good to see you smiling more._

Momoka pointed at the tents, having noticed them for the first time. “Oka-san!” she gasped. “Look! Hey! Where’s oto-san going?” She looked between Hashirama and her mother, trying to make sense of it.

Mito heard Hashirama’s deep, heartfelt laughter from ahead. “Momoka-chan!” Hashirama called, stopping to give attention to his adopted daughter. “You can come with me, okay?” He waved her forward.

Momoka lit up with the spark of intrigue. She hadn’t been on an adventure without her mother before. If Mito were honest with herself, she was a little nervous to let her daughter out of her sight. It was only because she told herself how ridiculous that was that she was able to be okay with it; Hashirama was exponentially stronger than she was herself. Momoka was probably safer with him than she was with her. She took a deep breath to calm her fluttering heart, catching Hashirama’s eyes one more time.

 _It’s okay if you say no, but I promise she’ll be fine._ He waited.

“Go on ahead, then,” she consented.  She watched with her heart in her throat as her child skipped on ahead, latching onto Hashirama’s hand. He lifted her effortlessly off the ground and deposited her on his shoulders, laughing, as was his way. She giggled and shrieked with unadulterated glee, perched atop the shoulders of the Shinobi famed the world over as a god.

“Touka-kun will be excited to see you,” Tobirama told her from behind.

She sighed with relief. Of the only two people whose names and faces she had known before she had left the Senju, both of them had miraculously survived. Her luck was with her.

“Don’t let her catch you doubting her,” Tobirama warned, reading her easily. “She doesn’t take kindly to anyone who doesn’t think she can handle herself.”

“I wasn’t,” she lied, but his knowing smirk was all that was needed.

“Things are a little tense right now,” Tobirama explained as they neared the edge of camp. “And there are Uchiha everywhere, so be on your guard. For the time being, they are behaving, but…” He shrugged noncommittally.

She read the undercurrent. “They aren’t to be trusted,” she finished for him.

He nodded slowly. “If they do come over to our side fully, their strength will be a tremendous asset and could potentially end all of the fighting. That has been my brother’s goal since he was a child.” He didn’t elaborate any further.

She sensed a ‘but’ in there somewhere. She frowned, prompted, “But?”

Tobirama sighed. “But, my brother is so set on that goal that he takes uncalculated risks, attempting to prove to them that _we_ can be trusted, though they don’t ever return that faith. The dance he leads is a dangerous one. He is… overly optimistic.”

“You think that they cannot be persuaded,” she stated flatly, understanding dawning. So, Tobirama and Hashirama had fundamentally disagreed on their ultimate mission. “And he thinks that they can.” She wondered what her part in the disagreement would be. She knew little of the Uchiha or their apparent trustworthiness.

“You’re very perceptive, Uzumaki-san,” he commended.

The smile and affectionate heckling he usually had for her were notably absent. She studied his face; Tobirama was exceptionally adept at masking his emotions, but the pronounced _lack_ of emotion emphasized that he was trying that much harder. Something was bothering him. “You’re troubled,” she observed.

The barest widening of his eyelids was the only indication that she had surprised him. She was getting better at reading their subtle undercurrents, even when they were trying to hide their feelings. “It’s nothing,” he insisted.

She knew that it wasn’t though, and she did not have the same reservations about prodding information out of Tobirama that she did with his brother. She had just the right leverage, too. “I am privy now to information that I wasn’t before,” she threw his words back at him, crossing her arms and standing her ground. “And if it concerns my husband, then I’m afraid I must insist.”

“Heh. I don’t think you’re afraid of anything, Uzumaki-san. Your brand of bravery is interesting.” She waited patiently, sensing that he was actually thinking about how he could tell her anything without telling it all, just to give her enough information to keep her busy. “He’s… angry with me.”

She blinked. Hashirama had given no outward sign of being upset with Tobirama. Had she missed that? “He… doesn’t look angry,” she commented, trying to replay their behavior in her mind. Somewhere, she had missed a cue. She still wasn’t practiced enough, it seemed.

Tobirama’s lips quirked in a rueful smile. “He won’t. But he is.” He raised an eyebrow. “You can’t tell, can you?” She shook her head, inwardly pouting. “You will. He laughs so much, smiles so often…. When he stops giving that to you, then you know. No one else would ever guess. I just know him better than anyone else. You will, too.”

“Ah.” She internalized the lesson. It served to remind her that even when she was paying close attention, it sometimes wasn’t close enough. She had a lot to learn about being his wife, apparently. No time to be irritated with herself now. “So. _Why_ is he angry?”

“Ahhh,” he mused. “That _is_ interesting, isn’t it? _Buuut..._ I don’t think you’re going to get that bit of information out of me today. Ah, look! Touka’s here.”

She stopped, realizing where they were for the first time. In the center of the Senju camp had always been some kind of impromptu party central. It was a gathering around a large fire, and the Shinobi gathered here told stories, gambled, and made mock of each other in public. It was the heartbeat of the Senju army, she knew from before, a place where the warriors could be reminded that there was a life beyond the fighting, and a reason to desire that the fighting should end. Mito had, of course, avoided it before. Getting to know her potential patients violated her only personal rule. Too, gambling was a disgusting habit. Why would someone risk their hard-won earnings on something so foolish as luck?

From across the circle, she captured Touka’s attention. The woman sat steel-straight, her senses on high alert, eyes wide open as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Uzumaki-sama?” she shrilled, dropping the dice in her hand.

“Ahh!” crowed the man stretched out upon the ground, pointing at the dice. “And she finally loses!!!”

“Huh?” Touka broke her gaze away from Mito and looked to where the dice had landed. “WHAAA?” she shrieked, leaping from her spot on the low bench and clutching at her hair. The Shinobi around her laughed good naturedly as she mourned the loss of her winning streak.

“I have a feeling you’re going to pay for that later,” Tobirama said under his breath. “I have to go.”

Her mood dampened. “I thought maybe you’d stay a while longer,” she lamented.

Tobirama’s smile was forced. “And deal with _her_? Not a chance. Bye!” He waved and launched himself off the ground, off to who-knew-where.

“Uzumaki-sama!” Touka sang cheerily. She strode toward Mito, arms outstretched, decorated head to toe in battle armor despite the fact that literally no one else was. She enfolded Mito in a hug, slapping her back so hard that Mito was sure she was bruising. She hissed and rubbed the spot, eliciting a hasty apology from the other woman. “Sorry, Uzumaki-sama. I got a little carried away.” She grinned, a sultry smile accentuated by the delicate line of her chin and the elegant curve of her visible eyebrow. Touka was actually very pretty; Mito had always thought so. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact though, and draped her muscular body in nothing but steel. “So you were the top secret mission, then, huh?” she thought aloud. “I guess I should thank you. You got the Tree King and Cold-as-Ice out of the camp for a while. Everyone finally got to have a good time.”

“Who?” she asked, rather confused.

“Hashi-sama and Tobi-dobe,” she responded earnestly. Mito gaped, for the nicknames that dropped from her lips were the most disrespect that she had ever heard from a person in her lifetime.

Touka adopted a curious expression when she spied Mito’s face, then laughed abruptly, hands on her hips. It was so reminiscent of Hashirama’s own that it made Mito laugh, too, back at ease, just like that. They were so alike in some ways that Mito wondered if radical mood swings was a family trait. “You’re wondering why I call them that, I see,” she observed with an amused glitter in her dark eyes. “I grew up with boys and men,” she explained. “They’re rude, crass, and dirty. _Not_ very ladylike. I have no need for manners here, so I guess I just never learned them.”

“Oh, I see,” Mito stated, though she didn’t really. She had been raised to respect positions of authority and power. To suggest otherwise and drop honorifics was akin to telling someone that they didn’t deserve their rightful place in the world.

“Anyway,” Touka continued. “What brings you back?”

Genuine, pleasant surprise took hold of her. “You mean you don’t know?” she asked, enjoying the momentary ownership of a secret of her own. She flashed Touka a sly smile, feeling playful. She wondered, kind of, if mischief was contagious.

Touka’s green eyes widened and her hands clapped together with a pronounced crack of metal. “Oh, is it _that_ good of a secret?” she exclaimed, filled with the energy of conspiracy. “Tell me tell me tell me!” she pressed, patting Mito’s head way too hard with a steel backed hand.

“Owww!” she cried, ducking to avoid the blows. Apparently, being Touka’s friend was painful. She was beginning to understand why Tobirama didn’t stay long when she was around. Frantic to stop the bludgeoning, she blurted, “Alright, _ALRIGHT!_ I got married!" 

Touka crashed to the ground in shock, shouting a wordless, wild exclamation. “ _You_ married _Tobi-dobe?!”_ she shouted incredulously, pointing.

 _Tobirama?_ Mito’s mouth fell open in horror, emitting a soft gasp of astonishment at the accusation. She couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing, crashing to the ground right beside Touka, dirtying her fine kimono and crying “No no no!” in between bouts of laughter. Tobirama had always been like a brother to her. To imagine such a relationship just seemed… wrong. She laughed and laughed until her abdomen hurt, and even then she had trouble stopping. When she could breathe again, she righted her skirts and struggled to compose herself, though stray chuckles still escaped through her nose. Eventually, she succeeded in calming herself, though. She was a lady, after all, and a clan chief’s wife besides. “Ahem,” she began, regaining her serenity, if only momentarily. She allowed a small smile, pleased with herself and the fine status of her spouse. “Senju Hashirama is my husband now,” she proclaimed.

Saying so was starting to give her a measure of pride, she noticed, and that was fine.

“Ooohhhhhhhh,” Touka drawled, comprehension dawning. “I see how it is,” she commented, nodding sagely and crossing her arms, eyes closed with concentration.

Mito’s curiosity piqued. “You do? 

“Mm-hmm.” She winked open one eye and smirked. “Aim high. You’re the most influential person in camp right now.” She whistled through her teeth. “Very impressively done.”

Mito blinked. Clearly, Touka was a very confusing person. “I...don’t understand." 

Touka covered her mouth with one hand and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “You know that thing between his legs?” Mito blushed furiously, flustered. “Properly employed, you can get that man to do... _anything..._ you want him to, even things he doesn’t want. You’re a kunoichi, Uzumaki-sama. Master your craft.”

“I’m not--” she started to say, but was interrupted.

“You married my clan chief,” Touka said seriously, rising, eyes sparkling dangerously. “If you were not a kunoichi before, you are now.” Abruptly she smiled cheerfully again. “Hashi-sama can be an idiot sometimes,” she sighed affectionately. “Your mission, now that you have already chosen to accept it, is to make sure he is _less_ of one.” She grinned ferally, turned, and pointed to the Senju crest on her own back with both thumbs. “ _You’re_ the clan chief now. He just doesn’t know it yet. And we’re a rowdy bunch, so good luck!” With a laugh, she rejoined the gambling circle.

“Aww man!” they groaned. “I was just starting to win some.”

“Suck it up, boys,” Touka crowed. “Ante up and give me your money. None of you louts know how to spend it properly anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just about halfway now! ^_^
> 
> My gosh, I'm tired today.


	19. Numbness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOSH IS THIS ANOTHER CHAPTER SO SOOOOON?!?!?!
> 
> I always believed that good behavior deserves a reward. I got like.... 7 comments and a new subscriber today, and everyone that commented pointed out something that resonated with them, or speculation on what was to come. I put a lot of work into cleverly choreographing this train wreck, so when you take the time to say something about it and point it out, it's like CRACK. Delicious, exciting, giggles-til-I-die crack. (Mmmmm.... *smiles*)
> 
> This is my way of saying thank you. You really made my day with all of your comments and I really got to enjoy myself responding to them. Therefore, I give you this chapter.
> 
> *bows low*

* * *

The deep, thrumming sound of a war horn split the air. One long blast followed by a series of shorter ones. Mito remembered that call like it was only yesterday, and it brought with it the familiar pang of dread. That pattern of horn blasts meant that people were about to die.

Confirming her suspicion, the camp held its collective breath while the horn blared, eyes lifted skyward, calmly accepting. The moment the air quieted, interrupted only by the occasional distant echo of the call to arms, the warriors flew into motion. Shinobi everywhere buckled armor and strapped on weapons, grim determination set deep into their war weary faces. Orders were barked from this direction and that, and officers and infantry alike arranged themselves according to their respective squads.

In the past, Mito would have gone with the rear guard, waiting for the first of the injuries in the safety of the deeper lines. Now, though, she was a mother; she had Momoka to think about. The thought froze her over, for suddenly she was _no longer okay_ with Hashirama carting her little girl around on his shoulders. She tore off through the tent lines, calling their names: “Hashirama! Momoka-chan! Hashirama!” Where was her daughter now? Certainly not riding Hashirama’s frame into battle?! Panic welled up within her, frantic and ugly, threatening to suffocate, or paralyze, or both.

She didn’t know where he had gone, or why, and with such limited information, she had no idea where to search. She simply charged forward blindly, covering as much ground as possible as quickly as she could. If the Uchiha attacked _now…!_

“Uzumaki-san!” Tobirama yelled suddenly, blurring out of nowhere.

She stopped running, heaving terrified gulps of air. _“WHERE IS SHE?!!”_ she screamed, voice hoarse from shouting, eyes wide and rolling with panic.

Tobirama didn't mince words. “I’ll take you there.”

She didn’t have even a fraction of a second to say anything, as he suddenly hugged her tight and vanished. She felt a momentary sense of vertigo, like her stomach was rearranging itself, her equilibrium thrown completely out of balance. The world dimmed to a blurry, disorienting monochrome, then suddenly exploded into a storm of color. The sensations were so jarring that she vomited as soon as her knees banged painfully into the ground, coughing, her mind rolling around in circles and unable to focus on anything. She shut her eyes against the assault to her senses.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “First time is always rough. Here, look. I have to go.” He vanished just as quickly as he had appeared. Finding her and bringing her here had probably made him late to wherever he was needed. She felt a little guilty.

He had deposited her right next to a large wooden dome, like a giant tree seed randomly situated. She stared at it in confusion. “What on earth…?” she wondered aloud, brushing her fingers over its surface. As if it were alive and only sleeping, the wood warmed to her touch, yawning open slowly and sinking back into the earth. There, sitting in the center rather calmly, was Momoka, hugging her knees tight to her chest. “Oka-san!” she cried, leaping off the ground to hang from Mito’s neck.

She sobbed with relief, eyes still wide with surprise, hugging her daughter tight. “ _Momoka-chan._ ”

“Oto-san told me to hide, and put me in the Hobi,” she explained, pointing behind her to the empty space where it had been. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she managed, hearing Hashirama’s influence in her words. He often ended his sentences with ‘isn’t it’. “Yes it is.”

“Oto-san says that when you are strong and you have people who are important to you, you protect them. That’s why he put me in the Hobi.” She considered for a moment before extrapolating, “Does that mean that someday when I am strong, I will be able to protect people, too?”

Mito was stunned to silence. Wisdom from the mouth of babes.

“I like him, Oka-san,” she continued, thinking out loud, her long, blood red bangs shadowing her face. “He can stay because I am important and I say so.”

* * *

 

He was numb. That was how he described it. Numb from the gravity of all that had happened. Numb from the void that still filled him up inside. Numb from the dizzying speed at which it had all suddenly ended, and numb from the realization of impossible dreams.

Filled with that cloying numbness, Madara stood. He hadn’t been this close to Hashirama without actively trying to kill him since they were children. Their eyes met; his muscles were so tight with the need to kill that he thought he would snap apart at the seams, but the intensity in Hashirama’s eyes managed, only just, to keep him from lashing out. If the Senju leader could sense the bottled up threat that he struggled to keep a lid on, he wouldn’t dare to be his close.

…Or maybe he would. Hashirama had always been a fool.

They stared at each other for several minutes, communicating without speaking, not needing to say a word. Madara was trying to remember that he didn’t hate the Senju, though he could feel Tobirama’s chilly presence, poisoning his good attempt to remain civil. It had been Tobirama who had fatally wounded the brightest soul in their harsh reality. Tobirama, who had snuffed the Uchiha’s brilliant star. Madara wanted nothing more than to gut the man from balls to brains and watch all that Senju smugness drain right out of him. And then maybe set him on fire. It would make him feel a little better, if nothing else.

Then without warning, Hashirama embraced him, his voice a harsh whisper in his ear. “I’m sorry for your loss, my friend.”

It stunned him. So many had already tried to console him, but every time he heard an apology, he rejected it. They didn’t understand because they didn’t want to. They saw him grieving and only wished that he would get on with it; there was a war, and kids died all the time. The only thing to do was to suppress your emotions and soldier on. Everyone had lost brothers, or sons, or some other relative. In their minds, Madara wasn’t any different than the rest of them. Every additional half hearted ‘sorry’ was a snapping thread on his sanity. Eventually, he had stopped letting anyone near him because he couldn’t listen to it anymore. It was for their own good, really; it was isolate them or murder them.

Yet Hashirama’s apology moved him. For a moment, the bloodlust ebbed, the red haze in his eyes retreating. _This_ man had lost brothers, too. Hadn’t that been the whole reason they had dared to dream the impossible from the beginning? “Thank you,” he mumbled, returning the embrace, feeling that elusive kinship with this person, as he always had before, even when he fervently hadn’t wanted to.

* * *

 

At first, the dream was real. They sat down at tables, uneasily starting conversations about supply routes and an organization of government, mundane things like roads and weddings. Madara listened with sublime disinterest as the days blurred by, one running into the next without pause, his thoughts elsewhere, on grander concepts and deeper philosophies… things that held no interest to the enthusiastic and optimistic planning committees. Firstly, they needed an infrastructure, but there was nothing one could do to make roads, drinking water, sewage, and agriculture interesting to him. He’d rather just bide his time until discussion of training facilities, leadership, and the future as a unified people.

He and Hashirama had changed. They were the same and yet different at once, for Hashirama had always been the light, as Madara had been the darkness, two halves of a coin… only one of them ever able to exist at one time. He observed his old friend and all of his habits, feeling not all the same about him as he once had. The more he observed, the more Madara despaired, for Hashirama had everything that he had ever wanted and was continually attaining ever more, all the while Madara only kept losing the things that he cared about.

Even Hashirama, he reflected bitterly. The deeper they fell into the dream of the Village Hidden in the Leaves, the more others demanded Senju Hashirama’s attention, and Madara could sense when he was not wanted. They had chased a dream, and Hashirama had caught it, and like the good boy he was, he was doing his best to share it generously with his friend Madara. Nonetheless, the toy that was Konoha belonged more to Hashirama than it did to him, and Madara was old enough to recognize when he was being humored.

This was no longer Madara’s dream. Not without Izuna. Not without Miyu. It had devolved into the pale shadow of a dream, weak and watered down, the colors bled together and faded. Like the Mangekyou, the vision was slowly going blind.

He was beginning to grow comfortable with his darkness.

Laughter tore him away from his brooding. Somewhere across the table, someone had said something funny. Hashirama’s fingers gripped the grain of the wooden table and he threw back his head and laughed, full of mirth and good humor, gorging on the camaraderie of the combined Uchiha and Senju. “What do you think, Madara?” he asked his old friend, trying to draw the outsider into their circle… sharing his toy.

And like the liar he was, Madara answered flawlessly. Although he had been mentally detached, a subconscious part of his brain had been paying attention the whole time just in case this happened. “Undoubtedly,” he answered, and the laughter redoubled. He smiled, not really feeling it.

He would let Hashirama enjoy this dream. He had earned it, and he had paid for it in blood as surely as Madara had. It seemed that they had always paid for commodities with blood.

* * *

 

Within him, the river still boiled, even if the real one in front of him meandered peacefully. He understood, now, why Hashirama had come here as a boy, to stare at the current, and let the chortling water wash away his pain. It was surprisingly soothing, though he had never had much of an affinity for water. The water sparkled in the glinting sunlight, and Madara smiled crookedly, knowing that no matter how long the clashes between the Senju and the Uchiha had dragged on, this river had never changed its course. In fact, it had not changed in any way at all. It looked exactly the same as it had more than ten years ago, when an idiot little boy showed him up at stone skipping.

“Hn.” He crossed his arms, allowing the smile. It wasn’t like there was anyone there to see it anyway.

For one blissful moment, his mind was blank, filled only with the quiet music of running water and the harmony of birds in the eaves of the trees nearby. The peace of it was so beautiful that it actually hurt, too lovely to withstand.

Then, like a hot spike, the memory came back.

 _Izuna…_ A ragged sob tore its way out of his throat. He could still smell the blood, still remember the timbre of his voice. Izuna was the Uchiha’s most perfect son, his balancing act. The world was an uglier place for his absence. No matter how good everything else seemed, Izuna was missing from it, and that was enough to ruin everything, even the tranquility of the river. _Especially_ that. A world without a sky, a song without a melody, a life without a meaning. “Damn it,” he growled, his voice cracking with emotion on the first syllable. He scrubbed at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. He _wasn’t_.

“Remember when we used to come here?” a familiar voice asked from just behind and beside. Hashirama lowered himself to the ground nearby, sitting cross-legged, staring out at the river. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Itama.” The word came just before the splash of a rock in the water, meaningless to Madara, but it hung between them like a living thing, heavy and palpable for reasons he didn’t understand. “And Kawarama.” He tossed another rock. Another splash. “My brothers.”

Again, like a balm, the pain in his heart lessened. It seemed Hashirama had a way about him; even when Madara was trying to confront and accept his emotional pain, Hashirama put forth an unwelcome effort toward erasing it. Neither of them spoke for a time, thinking of the brothers they had lost, and the time that they had wasted being enemies instead of friends. Madara poked around in the rocks on the riverbank, idly searching for the right one. He picked one up that seemed suitable, turning it over, inspecting it. _No._ He tossed it into the water. It made a satisfying sound. “Nagisa. My sister I never knew.” He inhaled a deep breath. Discarded three more unsuitable stones, one for each name. “Ichiro. Raia. Kenta. My brothers.” There, he’d said it.

And surprisingly, it _did_ make him feel better, to acknowledge them. He felt them in the serenity of the river, peaceful, no longer suffering. He sighed. “Raia was only five,” he confessed solemnly. “The Senju broke the lines, and he tried to protect my mother. They both died. Tomoko. My mother. The same day as Raia.” One more stone, larger than the rest, making a deeper, lazier sound as it sank into the water.

“Ume,” Hashirama added, replicating the action. “My mother. She took an attack protecting Tobirama. He remembers it, though I wasn’t there. Tobirama was four. It was his first kill.”

“Ichiro was my only older brother, and died when I was very young, so I don’t remember it. My father said he was filled with arrows. Kenta was eight and fell in battle. He pushed himself too hard, ran out of chakra. The enemy didn’t even have to touch him.” He shrugged, selecting another stone. “They did anyway.”

Another moment passed in silence. “We’re the same, you and I,” Hashirama added quietly. “It is so _good_ to finally be done with all the fighting.” He sighed and stretched his legs out, immersing his toes in the water.

“We aren’t the same,” Madara stated, frowning. It was a simple fact. “ _You_ still have a brother.”

“Well,” Hashirama began, trying to turn the tone of the conversation, “ _I’m_ your brother.”

Madara stared. How could he tell this man that it simply was not the same? Hashirama didn’t have a Sharingan. They hadn’t practiced every day for the past ten years fighting each other, elbowing each other in the ribs, and trying to out-Katon the other. Hashirama wasn’t Izuna. He wasn’t an Uchiha. “You are,” Madara lied, standing, tossing the rock and catching it. “How about a contest?” He glared a challenge at the boy from the river. Perhaps, if he pretended long enough, he could make it true...

Hashirama grinned, and for just a moment, Madara saw the boy he was back then, instead of the man he was now. They shared enthusiasm. Hashirama stood and dusted himself off, then reverently extracted a stone from within his shirt. Madara stared at it, curious. “Eh? What’s that? A magic flying stone?” he teased. “Cheaters won’t ever win.”

“No,” he dodged, walking the stone between his knuckles, weaving in and out like a magic spell. “But it _is_ special. I kept it from back then.”

Madara stared. Had he really hung onto a boring old stone for this long? How… sentimental. “There are hundreds of them just like that here,” he pointed out.

“Yeah,” Hashirama confirmed. “There are. “But this one I took with me. As we chased each other around the map, I carried it. We never got to finish that last challenge. Our families interrupted, and I knew I was going to win, so...” He shrugged.

Madara raised an eyebrow at the boast. “Oh yeah? How were you going to do that? I’d been practicing every day, not that you would know.”

“Yeah,” Hashirama retorted, making a face. “Because I was going to throw it at your head.” He cocked back his arm.

“Wha--?”

The stone struck him squarely between the eyes, and Hashirama burst out laughing and pointing. “And now I have!” he hollered triumphantly.

“Damn you, Hashirama!” he growled, his internal troubles forgotten for the time being as he chased the man around the riverbank. “Being an idiot doesn’t make you the winner!” No matter that they had fought epic battles of blood and fire, of roaring, living wooden dragons and broken steel. They could tear the landscape apart with the force of their attacks, breaking and reshaping the land into new worlds.

But instead they chose to fight with stones and sprays of water, throwing insults instead of shuriken. At least for today.

Like brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yes, I realize there's an inconsistency here, if you paid close attention. In the beginning, there was a different horn that called Madara away. Therefore, Mito should have known he wasn't on the Senju side. I noticed, I just didn't care. Therefore, my half-assed explanation is that the only one that mattered to her was the "hey we're going into battle" horn. *shrugs* Meh. My story, I do what I want. It's fanfiction and it didn't cost you nothing. *wink*


	20. Peace

Those first few months passed by in a blur of activity, and Madara hardly even noticed. All that he could really say for it was that at least they were done with the fighting. He looked around and saw enthusiastic Uchiha, filled with the energy of a fresh start and talking about their dreams. It brought him a modicum of comfort, but he was saddened by it, too. How could they not see how they had sacrificed the pride of the clan for the promise of peace?

If he had not been so damnably tired out by losing his brother, he would never have agreed to it. In the end, he had done it for the clan. He had promised his father that the clan would come first, and Izuna had believed in that, too. They had had different thoughts about what that meant, though. To Izuna, and Tajima, preserving the clan had meant never giving up until Uchiha was the number one clan in the country.

To Madara, that had meant keeping them alive. The Uchiha could not endure with the numbers that they had now, not with so many having fallen in battle or left for the promises of the Senju. The Uchiha were not well served by a clan leader who was grieving and impulsive, either. He had felt it, as he clashed with Hashirama for that last time, that he had cared more about destroying Izuna’s killer than he had cared about leading his people at all. Now that his head was cooled, he realized how foolish and dangerous that that had been. Time to recalibrate.

And so, he had surrendered. ‘Made peace,’ as they said. Funny, how people would always present situations in their best light. In all actuality, Madara had been soundly defeated and seconds away from suffering the same fate as Izuna, and by the same Senju. If it weren’t for the mercy of Senju Hashirama, Uchiha Madara would already be dead. In truth, he didn’t much mind the thought of dying.

Despite the fact that Hashirama had had the upper hand though, faced with Madara’s unreasonable demands, he had been willing to sacrifice so much more for just the mere _promise_ that the fighting would stop, and now, months later, they called it ‘making peace.’ They all acted as if Madara had simply demanded an audience with Hashirama and discussed terms of alliance, instead of him being given the permission to live, even if the effect was the same.

 _Time will tell,_ he thought to himself, curling up inside his emptiness. He felt as if someone had cut his body open and scraped out everything within him that held any worth. He was scoured and empty inside, a shell of a man struggling to stay afloat on crashing waves. The Village Hidden in the Leaves was their creation, a concept they had devised as a team, but Hashirama steered that dream now, and Madara himself was content to float along, numb to all else but his own private nothing. There was nothing left for him now. Sometimes he caught himself wondering, _what is the point?_ There was no one left to even miss him if he was gone.

And all the while, Hashirama carried on as if the years had not come and gone. Like they hadn’t paid the butcher’s bill for the peace they now enjoyed, and like Kawarama and Itama and Izuna and Raia and all the others hadn’t perished so that they might live as if none of it had ever happened. Hashirama smiled, working diligently toward an era without war. Like everything was exactly the same as it had always been, and they were just two boys skipping stones. As if ‘peace’ were synonymous with ‘willful ignorance.’

He couldn’t shake the feeling that it just _wasn’t going to work out._

And in his mind he saw Izuna’s dying face telling him not to be deceived minutes before choking on his last breath. He saw Tajima telling the story of how his family had been murdered by ones they had trusted, tricked by the sweet words of the forest clan. Madara wasn’t sure if it was the consuming emptiness gnawing its way deeper into his belly or the insistent ring of truth, but the unease was a constant companion. If it was true that the Senju were a fae people who excelled at deceiving unsuspecting prey, then Hashirama was perfect to fulfill that role. The man did not have a tricksome bone in his whole body.

And the fact that Madara trusted him implicitly was all the more reason not to trust him at all.

* * *

 

Mito stood in the center of a blank and empty room, awestruck. Meanwhile, Momoka danced from one spot in the room to the next, laughing and pointing and generally just being adorable. “Do you like it?” Hashirama asked her, unbinding his armor and letting it clatter to the floor ignored. The sound of it echoed off the walls, for the place itself was still empty, in want of furniture and possessions that belonged.

He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle, smiling all the while… his default expression. Clad in a smile all her own, her fingers hooked over his arms and she observed his handiwork. It had begun to amaze her, the things that he could do. Back then, she had never had much of a chance to see the young prodigy Senju Hashirama in battle. She had always hung back a little bit, caring for those that had fallen, while the youthful warlord blazed a path forward, meeting the strongest of their foes head on. None were more capable of surviving the onslaught than he was, and it wasn’t until the day she had inexplicably seen him on the battlefield, begging him to save the life of one man, that she had ever understood why.

Hashirama was the master of all living things. That was the only way to describe it. He had the life force of a dozen men, enough happiness to infect an entire people, and a technique that was so unimaginably powerful that it had rendered him sterile, as if it were the special blessing of the gods that they did not wish to be copied, and had given it to him with that as an express condition. The Mokuton was more useful than she had ever imagined, and if she had not already been married to him, she knew that her father would be pursuing him on her behalf for that bloodline alone. After all, Hashirama’s Mokuton had created the room that now housed them. And every building in the village beyond these walls. Nevermind that it had cowed the might of the Uchiha on top of all of that. “It’s amazing,” she replied honestly. She wasn’t only talking about the house that he’d built them, of course, but it was an all inclusive statement. In short, Senju Hashirama was a living miracle, and _all hers._

“It’s just a house, right now,” he explained humbly. “An empty box with four walls and a ceiling. Nothing special. But I’ve got a lot of work to do, and it’s going to keep me busy for a while. I don’t want to bore you with all of the details, but I thought you might appreciate your own project, and…” he trailed off, then squeezed her tightly, briefly. “I think I’d like my home better if you made it just how you wanted it. I want to see how your imagination works when it runs off.”

“I’d be glad to,” she responded, her thoughts elsewhere.

Elsewhere, like… how had she gotten so unbelievably lucky? One moment she had been an unwed mother, shamed and ignored for giving away her value for free, and then the next she was the cherished noble wife of the leader of the most powerful clan of their time.

“Teach me!” Momoka demanded, stamping her foot before Hashirama.

Mito almost tried to tell her that she couldn’t learn it, that it simply wasn’t possible, but Hashirama beat her to it. He released Mito’s middle and scooped up the child. “I can teach you, but until you are much older and much stronger, the process will be _very_ slow. Can you be a patient little girl?”

Momoka’s eyes widened with all seriousness. “I can be patient.”

Mito stifled a laugh. Yes, Momoka _could_ be patient, but only when she _really_ wanted something.

“Hold out your hand,” he commanded. Momoka held both hands open like a cup, standing straight with the knowledge of a kind of power that was usually only reserved for her elders, and Hashirama, whom she admired above all others. Hashirama held his fist over her hands and paused. “Are you ready?” Momoka nodded somberly, filled with an adult sense of responsibility. Hashirama’s hand opened, and a sprinkling of seeds fell into her palms. “Do you remember how they grow?” he asked her seriously.

Momoka nodded. “From the ground,” she whispered. “Growing things need earth and water.”

* * *

 

Though Izuna was a constant ache, in the past Madara had caught himself thinking of Miyu only rarely. They had loved fiercely, desperately, and completely, but he had only known her a short time. No sooner had they found each other than they were separated again, and the world had flung them so far apart that they’d never see each other again. The wound would never heal, but he had done a decent job of ignoring it, ever since she had died. Knowing she was gone had given him closure, at least. Chasing her was meaningless, knowing that he could never have found her anyhow, and since he had diverted his energies toward avenging her, he had only grieved for her for a short time.

But now that the war was over and the village was built, Madara’s thoughts wandered back to the lovely maiden from way back when. If he had found her, if they had married, would she like it here? His eyes scanned his surroundings, taking into consideration the massive trees and bountiful sunshine.

Perhaps, if he could have had _either_ Izuna or Miyu, he could have been alright. Loving one would help him cope with the absence of the other. After all, it was Izuna’s support that had kept him going after he had learned _she_ was dead. Now that Izuna was gone, he wished she was there to comfort him and ease his grief.

 _I’m sorry,_ he said within his thoughts, hoping that wherever her spirit was, she could forgive him for not finding her in time. Sometimes, he thought that he saw her, haunting him in death as she had in life. He knew it was impossible, of course, and recognized it for what it was: a lonely heart imagining phantoms to fill the empty spaces. _I’m sorry... I really did try._

He had failed though. Izuna, and Miyu. He hadn’t kept his promises. _Too late now._

* * *

 

It was late in the evening. The stars had long ago appeared in the sky, and the moon was full, illuminating the world like everyone’s lamp. Hashirama had yet to return though. Mito did not fear; it had been a very long time since the sounds of war had split the evening air. Nor did anyone ever have to endure that fatal silence that signaled the beginning or the end of any battle. In fact, if she listened very closely and shut her eyes, she could hear the far away sounds of laughter and revelry.

 _My village,_ she thought, feeling a twinge of pride, sipping a cup of tea while Momoka silently chased fireflies. Barely a year ago, Momoka might have laughed as she attempted to catch them, but she was learning too quickly, a precocious Shinobi sapling reaching for the sun. She had learned that ‘stealth’ meant to be silent and swift, and the jar on the porch was quickly filling with fireflies.

 _This village is a good place,_ she decided. This house, this porch, and the jar of fireflies upon it brought her peace. Here, she could wait patiently and without fear as she recalled the conversation that had occurred between her and her lord husband earlier that day.

_“If I can ask of you this one thing…?” he asked, winding a tendril of her hair that had escaped around his finger_

_“Of course. I will help in any way that I can.” She needed this village to thrive as much as he did. All of their futures were riding on the success of Hashirama’s revolutionary plan._

_“Walk around. Reassure them. If you see anyone in trouble, let them know that we can all count on each other… that they can ask me.” It was hard not to share in his enthusiasm._

_She nodded in understanding. The bonds of friendship between Senju and Uchiha were new, and trust took a long time and a lot of effort to build. Hashirama was wonderful, but intimidating enough simply for his existence, and chilly Tobirama was more difficult still. The proud villagers weren’t comfortable asking the mighty Senju for anything, but they might be willing to talk to her. What he asked of her was easy, and she was only too glad to help. “May I ask of you one thing also?” she asked, putting her supposed control over her husband to work, strengthened by Touka’s words from that time in the camps._

_He smiled, seemingly thrilled that she felt that she could ask. “Anything. Name it.”_

_“Please don’t just assume that I won’t be interested in what you are up to. This village is my home, too, and I want to help. If I can’t be there with you in person, at least share any news.”_

_She could tell by the look on his face that he was elated. He was used to being alone in his excitement about tedious meetings and endless talks. Tobirama, she knew from their conversations, saw those conventions as effort without enjoyment, necessary but undesired. “Of course.” Another happy smile. She’d lost count of those._

And that was how she had learned of the village’s fearsome cofounder, Uchiha Madara, whom Tobirama seemed convinced was the closest being to pure evil. And, too, she recalled how little trust Tobirama held for the Uchiha in general, Madara most of all. There were secrets here that she did not yet fully comprehend, but she hadn’t gotten up the nerve to ask. Mention of the Uchiha seemed to aggravate the two Senju brothers against one another, and she was only just now beginning to relax in her new role in their elaborate peace scheme.

For Uzumaki Mito would inevitably be stuck between all three of them. Senju Hashirama, her husband and the reason she was able to finally enjoy her life and her family. Senju Tobirama, the first friend she had had that wasn’t paid to be her friend, brother to her husband and most trusted advisor in all things, though notoriously prickly and cautious. And finally, Uchiha Madara, a man that Hashirama trusted like a brother, and a man whom Tobirama trusted not at all.

“Oka-san,” Momoka murmured, holding a firefly in her cupped hands and peering at it through her fingers. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Every time she spoke like Hashirama, Mito had to smile. Her husband truly had a way with her daughter. “They’re just as bright in the jar as they are when they are flying free. Except that now… they are only bright where I let them be bright, unless I decide to let them go. This is power, isn’t it?”

“They can light up your room, if you like,” Hashirama said, appearing at the edge of the lamplight.

“Oto-san!” she cried, releasing the firefly into the aether and running to her father. “Yes, please!”

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said to Mito. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late…”

She smiled. “I wanted to. And anyway, I can’t sleep when you are gone.” She paused. “You’re always so busy,” she chastised fondly. “Meetings and supply routes and structuring a new system of government… don’t you ever get tired?”

“It’s a lot of work, but I enjoy it,” he told her with a smile. “When I sit still, I think only of what I could be doing, so I mostly just end up getting up to do it anyway. Don’t worry, though,” he added with a wink. “I always make sure to save enough energy for you.” He went to her, hugged her quickly and held her close. “Mito… Before we married, you wanted to know about the man I asked you to save,” he said softly into her ear. “I promised to tell you.” She was already shaking her head. “His name is--”

She pressed her fingers to his lips, silencing him, coming to a decision. An important one. “I don’t need to know anymore,” she said, surprising herself. _I am happy with you. Let Masaru stay right where he is, in my memories and not in between us._

 

 


	21. Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bored, so lucky you. I've spent the past two days writing something completely out of left field O_O You can thank my friend CountessMillarca for distracting me and talking me into writing something completely--COMPLETELY, I SAID--out of my comfort zone. More notes for this at the bottom of the page.
> 
> All I really wanted to say with this was that I was bored and stuck on a plot point, waiting for an idea, so I figured I'd be extra super nice and give you another chapter. I'll keep posting at an accelerated rate until we dive right into the thick of things. You'll know when it happens because your heart will fall out of your chest and bleed out on the floor.
> 
> Mito's Mom came back in this chapter. More on this at the end. Now read.

* * *

Momoka was with Hashirama the day that Mito’s mother arrived.

The visit was entirely unexpected. One day she was simply there, standing, hair like a living flame, wild and in disarray as if her head were on fire. She looked so unlike the woman Mito had known, alive and bright, that she had to do a double take to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. However, the unmistakable red of the Uzumaki bloodline was not a trait among the dark haired, dark eyed Uchiha and Senju, and Uzumaki Nanami stood out as if she _were_ a flame… on a black backdrop. “Hello, Mito,” was all that she said, her voice clear and steady, richer somehow, than it ever had been during their lives together in Uzushio.

Mito stared. The last time she had seen her mother, Uzumaki Nanami was weeping and inconsolable, a useless woman who had done nothing for Mito except give her birth. It was really the only gift that she had ever given her that she could say of a certainty that she had wanted. Early in her childhood, Mito had dismissed her mother as an unfit parent, and it had been her father’s duty to raise her. Harsh and insensitive as he was, at least he provided some level of discipline and upbringing, a moral compass by which to set her path. Uzumaki Nanami had not even been that. If anything, Mito might have hated her mother more so than she hated her father, for her mother should have known her restless heart best, and was indifferent anyway. “Why are you here?” Mito asked, sounding colder than she had intended.

The tone of her own voice was enough to shock Mito. She had not thought that she could sound so powerful. Her _own mother_ had shown up on her doorstep, and not only had Mito demanded an explanation, but she was reasonably certain that she could send her mother away, even have her forcibly escorted from the walls of of the village, and exiled to boot. The thought thrilled her, but she stayed her hand. An explanation would be payment enough, she surmised, and even if it wasn’t…

…there was still the small matter of just how… different… her mother seemed. Mito was at least curious. “We need to talk,” Nanami stated flatly. She crossed her arms and cocked a hip, the very picture of a woman of strength and position. The person Uzumaki Nanami should have been all along, but not the person she had been.

... _Interesting_.

Mito thought about it. She took a moment to consider the block of time that she had available and whether it was worth wasting, calculating from his schedule that Hashirama would be away most of the day. She had intended to spend the day reading—ironically enough, about the history of the clans of the world, the lesson her father had tried to impart. She wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of entertaining her mother in their home, but it was an awfully long way to Uzushio, and she figured that she at least owed her mother the conversation for which she had traveled. She bit her lip and gave her mother a once-over, adding the bizarre and unexpected appearance of Uzumaki Nanami to the balance of value versus time. “Come in,” she allowed with an exhalation of displeasure, disappearing within to prepare tea.

“Look at you,” Nanami proclaimed proudly as she followed her into the kitchen. Her voice had the husky, breezy air of mature confidence, a peculiar change from the keening, whiny voice from before. “So _self assured_ now! A lord’s wife, who knows _how to be_ a lord’s wife.”

“Well, if it were up to you both it would be the _only_ thing I’d be good at,” she clipped out, choosing the tea that was not special and tossing the leaves into the pot with irritation.

She drew her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “It was up to your father, not me, though it suited my purposes,” Nanami replied cryptically.

Mito retrieved the cups and set them between them while the leaves began to steep. “Frankly, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mito urged, trying to hurry the conversation along so she could hustle the other woman out of her house. “But you’ve come all this way, presumably alone. You didn’t come just to pester me, I take it. Whatever it is you want to say, say it and begone. I…” She tried to think of an excuse to get her to speak swiftly and then leave, and failed. “I’m—“

“—not particularly fond of me,” she finished for her. “I know.” Mito blinked, waiting for the excuses. There would surely be excuses. “I can’t blame you, Mito. I’ve been rotten to you. I’ve never been there for you. Ignored you, even. I let your father raise you the way he wanted to raise you, all the while letting you hurt, alone.” Mito sipped her tea silently, her silence accusation enough. “I’m not ashamed. If anything, I’m quite proud of myself, actually.” She sat up straighter and smiled as if amused at some private joke. “The results are _far_ better than I was hoping for.” She leaned over the table and winked. “It was _an act_ , Mito.”

Mito paused in the motion of teacup to lips, considering carefully. “What do you mean, ‘ _an act’_?”

The other woman’s eyes twinkled with intrigue. “I have something to tell you. And I won’t ask you for your forgiveness… but I do hope that you will understand the reason for my actions by the end of it.” She took a breath and a sip of tea, then reclined onto one elbow over the ladder back chair. “Among the Uzumaki, there is a secret lineage of exceptionally high pedigree known only to a select few, and we possess a power that would be extremely dangerous, if it were to fall into the wrong hands.”

Mito was immediately confused. Her mother had never displayed any kind of aptitude for a ninja lifestyle. In fact, she had turned up her nose at any mention of chakra and seemed to disdain Shinobi. Mito herself, apprehensive of the potential to accidentally hurt herself, had never sought to be powerful in any respect… had only studied the kinds of skills that would most help the people she cared about. To hear her mother speak of a special power felt… odd. She was, after all, still trying to wrap her head around her mother simply _not crying._ Believing that Uzumaki Nanami was some kind of badass wasn’t happening any time soon. “What kind of power?” Mito asked carefully, trying not to seem _too_ interested. She didn’t want to pay for this story, and it had been a long, long time since she had trusted either of her parents not to put hooks in their generosity.

“The kind of power that could protect the world… or enslave it,” Nanami declared reverently with grandiose gesticulation. “It is the most important responsibility of the Uzumaki to make sure that our power is passed down to only those who are wise enough to wield it properly. And that, my daughter, is where it all _begins_.” Mito leaned forward as Nanami began to tell her story. “Our line is a dominant, matriarchal lineage, more ancient than the foundation of Uzushiogakure--the Village Hidden in the Whirlpools--older even than the Sage of the Six Paths himself. There was a time when demons walked among us, wearing our faces, starting wars and devastating natural disasters, on a zealous mission to wipe out mankind. Our ancestors worshipped the Shinju, the god tree, and begged for its mercy, and in doing so were given its permission to allow one among them to climb the god tree as the flower bloomed. The freely gifted power within that being was chakra, though centuries later, chakra would be ‘discovered’ by another, who greedily stole it for herself.

“Using this miraculous new power, our people learned to identify and imprison the demons, over time becoming known as wardens. Our ancestors were very wise, though. They recognized that others would be jealous of this power, and went to great lengths to ensure that no one ever knew. It is our best kept secret. Every new generation is raised without knowing of their heritage, and no one knows every person among our number, to avoid betrayal and therefore extinction. We may only know our own line; I know my mother before me, and now I know you.”

“Me?” Mito squeaked timidly.

Nanami continued as if she had not been interrupted. “Our talent is known as fuinjutsu, the art of sealing. It has many mundane uses, many of which have been uncovered by others since. Fuinjutsu to the Uzumaki, however, is especially used to sequester and control the powers of evil. When our children are born, the full extent of all of the knowledge that we have attained in our lifetime is copied and implanted within our children, sealed, of course. That seed of knowledge exists within you now. If I wished it, I could leave it there indefinitely, and you would never know. Of course, in doing that, I would end my lineage, and our art would be lost forever, and I cannot even be certain that I am not the last.”

Mito stared into her teacup, troubled. What her mother was saying sounded like a madman’s tale: demons with human faces and god trees and the power to imprison spirits? It all sounded just a little too fantastic. It was too farfetched, though, for the mother that she knew to have made it up, and that thought was even more disturbing.

“Mito,” Nanami continued, excited now. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Mito shook her head. “Oka-san… forgive me, but I don’t understand any of this.”

Nanami frowned petulantly, pouting for her story needing extra explanation; apparently, her flair for drama was not entirely a fabrication. “Mito, you’re a warden. Within you, dormant, lies the power of fuinjutsu. And, I have another secret. I’ll tell you later. First—“

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Mito piped up suddenly with a swipe of her hand, “but why are you only telling me this now? Why didn’t you tell me before?” Before her father had named her _whore_ to her face. Before she had run away. Before she had been stripped of all of her confidence and will. Why had she not learned of this supposed power when her spirit had been stronger? When she had had the desire and the drive to master it properly?

Nanami’s smile slipped, and she looked away. “I wanted to,” she said quietly. “But our abilities are too dangerous. If you’d have seen half the evil I have seen in my lifetime…” She trailed off, shut her eyes, remembering. When she opened them again, they were pleading, begging her forgiveness. “Would you give your child the power to play with monsters?”

Mito thought about Momoka, playing with her fireflies in the jar. She was just a child but… she had captured scores of them, had understood that she was enslaving them and bending their power to her will... Even when they had all died the next morning, all she did was go out the following evening and catch more. Too curious by half, Momoka had no understanding yet of right and wrong. “No,” she admitted.

“Your father would have had you cowed and pliable, a tool to further his legacy,” Nanami went on bitterly. “I had to know you were right for this, and that you would not let him control you and the immense responsibility entrusted to you.” Suddenly her smile had returned again. “Did you know that I ran away from home when I was fifteen?” she asked suddenly, completely changing the subject, jarring Mito from her gloom.

Mito’s eyes widened, and she gasped. “No! You?”

“Oh yes!” Nanami laughed. “I was much more willful than you were. We Uzumaki are extraordinarily headstrong. The warden lineage is a domineering personality. I had hoped that, no matter how hard your father pushed, that it was my genetics that would claim you in the end, and in this you were _marvelous_ , my daughter,” she declared, exultant, reaching for and squeezing Mito’s hand. “There is no one in the world who deserves this power more, for in your hands you might protect the world better than the rest of us combined. There’s so much more! But first, I need to unravel that seal. It is your birthright. It is why I am here.”

Mito felt breathless. All of this sudden talk about god trees and demons was rather disconcerting. Before today she had not even known that such things existed. She hadn’t read a whole lot of fiction as a child, but the legends about tailed beasts and vengeful gods had always frightened her. Did she even want this mysterious power? She was finally starting to feel contentment as a clan chief’s wife. There was solace to be found in gardening, cooking meals, and hearing about the small victories of Hashirama’s ultimate dream. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to change, particularly not if those changes involved all manner of evil . “Do I have a choice?” she asked.

Nanami frowned. It was clear from her disconsolate expression that she had never considered the possibility that Mito would not want her power. “Yes, Mito,” she finally said with grim reproof. “Though I would hope you would not be so foolish. If I die before releasing this seal, my fuinjutsu dies with you. You do not have to use it,” she offered with a shrug. “I never have. But it would be better to have it in case it is needed, wouldn’t it, rather than to need it and be powerless?”

 _Powerless,_ she repeated internally, tasting the bitterness of that word. She had known powerlessness, watching people choke on their own mouthfuls of air or try to hold their bodies together when the insides spilled out. She had known powerlessness when she had submitted her happiness to the whim of a man whose name she had never known who had never found her. She had known powerlessness, and she _would not_ know it again. She had a hard time imagining what kind of need she would have for such a power but… she had a responsibility to Hashirama, and Momoka, and indeed, the whole village to consider. If there did come a time when she needed to intervene, how would she feel if she had turned down the power to do so? “Yes,” she said unpleasantly. “You’re right.”

Nanami smiled ruefully. “It’s not easy, is it? To know that you can save the world, but to also know you possess the choice to let it burn.” Mito shook her head slowly, and Nanami squeezed her hand again with an outpouring of sympathy. “Those who desire power the least are those that should have it the most.”

She thought immediately of Hashirama, and readily agreed. That was all it took to finish convincing her. She sat straighter, feeling the burdensome weight of responsibility “Alright. Unseal it.” There were people that depended on her now. The time for selfish decisions was behind her.

Nanami would not give her the chance to change her mind; she stood and walked over behind her. Mito heard the rush of hand signs and the rustle of her mother’s sleeves, and then her cool fingers upon the nape of her neck. Then, with a sharp gasp of ice cold air, an awareness flared within her like the opening of a magnificent flower. She froze and burned all over at once, a screaming agony that was also ecstatically sweet. She thought her heart would burst from the force of it, but just as quickly as the feeling had come, it rapidly ebbed, releasing her from its icy fingers until nothing remained but a trembling presence in her heart and a dull but insistent headache. _I’m still here when you need me,_ it seemed to say, a meek presence that meant to serve her faithfully. “It’s done,” Nanami said calmly, as if she had needed to.

Yes, Mito could tell that it was done. She suddenly had the knowledge of a host of different sealing techniques, all stored as memory as if they had been there all along, and she had just forgotten that she knew them. “Wow,” she uttered automatically, unable to contain the word as she hesitantly began sifting through the new techniques, laid out in her head like a lovingly organized library.

Nanami, back in her chair now, smiled brilliantly, a child who had finally gotten to tell a treasured secret. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she exulted, breathless. Mito nodded, dumbstruck.

“Now, for that secret I promised,” she announced. All of the jovial qualities of her voice were gone. Something dark and feral glittered in Nanami’s dark eyes, a thick layer of intrigue that was so devious that she might never get to speak its equal in her lifetime.

And as Mito listened, she wept, for hers was a secret too terrible to comprehend, and keeping it would surely set Mito on a path into madness and chaos.

Total destruction, at least, was a surety. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start with Mito's mom. This scene was born because I realized that I had given Mito no access to her incredibly important sealing skills. It's rather critical to plot later, so somehow I had to get her powers to her. Then, THAT happened. I hope it worked out for you. It's one of those OH SHOOT I NEED TO FIX THIS HUGE PROBLEM IN A BIG WAY moments where the author just kind of pulls something out of their ass and hopes you won't notice. 
> 
> I'll just point it out to you and wave and say "my bad." Yay for fanfiction being just for funsies. ^_^
> 
> Now. As for that... new story... *glares at it* All I'm going to tell you for now is that Shisui is in it. And it's so... NOT... my usual cup of tea that I actually made a new pen name just so that I can post it. But I got so excited about it that I've written about 16,000 words in two days. It is what it is. I'm just going to shut my eyes and type it out. You'll know it when you see it. You'll know that it's me. You'll know why I'm kind of torn up about it, and you'll know right away why I went with it. *smh* 
> 
> It's really Shisui's fault. That man has a way of getting under your skin and getting you to do whatever he wants you to (AHEM! That is certainly NOT a spoiler!). It's probably because of kotoamatsukami. 
> 
> Anyway. You'll see it when you see it. It's obviously not posted yet. 
> 
> how did this chapter treat you?


	22. Kunoichi

“Unseal this when I’m gone,” her mother told her. In her hand was a tightly wound scroll, tied with a simple piece of twine. “It’s my wedding present, to you. From me only, not your father,” she clarified. Then she paused, running one thumb over the paper, considering. “I don’t think I need to tell you this, Mito, but I will anyway... _Don’t_ trust your father.”

“Why?” she asked automatically, accepting the scroll. She had never really liked her father, but he was still her father. Blood was thicker than water, it was said.

“There’s another Uzumaki lineage,” Uzumaki Nanami told her, purposefully ambiguous, her expression grave. “One I’d rather not talk about. Maybe someday, okay?”

Mito nodded dumbly, still looking at the scroll, not quite thinking about what was in it, nor the lineage of her father and what that might mean for her... not yet. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know any of it. “What now, Oka-san?” It was strange… only that morning she had never wished to see her mother again. Now, suddenly, she was _worried_ she might never see her again, and after the warnings about her father… Mito wasn’t sure she wanted her mother to go back home.

Nanami breathed in a deep breath of clean forest air. “Well...” she hedged, exhaling slowly through her nose. “The wild environments are refreshing… I think I may run away from home again. Good things happen to us Uzumaki when we run away from home,” she added with a wink. “After all, the last time I did it, the gods blessed me with… _you_.” Her dark eyes sparkled in the fading sunlight.

Mito’s eyes bulged, her mouth falling open again. “Oka-san!” she squawked, scandalized.

Uzumaki Nanami laughed. “We aren’t so different, you and I, Mito mine. Denying your nature will only bring you unhappiness. So…” She shrugged. “Don’t.” With a wink and a quick kiss, her mother set off down the path of a new life, a casual wave over her shoulder their only farewell. Mito could only stare, shocked into silence, as her figure shrank smaller and smaller upon the horizon before disappearing entirely

She spent a long time at the kitchen table after that alone with her thoughts, struggling to make sense of Uzumaki Nanami the kunoichi. Mito had been so thoroughly duped for her entire life, and apparently her father had been, too. Well, she supposed he actually wasn’t her father, but… _who was her father?_ To think that Uzumaki Katashi had been tricked into raising a child not his own, all the while so adamant about furthering his line… She smiled a small, secretive smile, pleased that the gods were just.

She remembered her mother’s words, then, about there being another Uzumaki lineage. ‘Don’t trust your father,’ she had said. With all that said, and that other matter, the one of great secrecy that her mother had been so proud of uncovering, Mito wondered just how deeply the secrets of the Uzumaki ran. She spent a long time trying to decipher the meanings and philosophies of all that her mother had told her. Long enough that her brain hurt, at which point she rejected that logic and replaced it with the logic that had governed her this far. “You have a certain amount of knowledge, Uzumaki Mito,” she said aloud to herself. “Don’t pretend you know anything else.” She couldn’t very well make sense of the world if she was trying to see what could not be seen. For the time being, she was merely Hashirama’s wife, granted a new set of power and knowledge of an even greater power that she could harness for herself, if she chose.

Was this what it meant to be a kunoichi? To use every talent at her disposal to protect the ones that she loved? She thought of Momoka, and Hashirama, and Tobirama and Touka. Would she be willing to dance with evil, lash it to her will, and wield it against her enemies if it meant keeping them safe?

Honestly, she didn’t know. The thought of it was terrifying.

Her eyes fell upon the scroll. She feared that there was something wicked sealed within it, and hesitated to open it. But her mother wouldn’t grant her some unfathomable power and then kill her off... would she? Troubled, she thought about how little she really knew about Uzumaki Nanami, and decided that no possibility could be considered off the table. In fact, it was entirely possible that Nanami’s lineage was the evil one. Perhaps the scroll on the table, once unsealed, would enslave Mito for some dark purpose. Although, it was more likely that the scroll simply contained some twisted pet or other for Mito to practice her powers on.

She stared at it for several minutes before she gathered the courage to open it, telling herself that Hashirama would not have hesitated (though he would definitely proceed with caution). Slowly, she untied the knot closing the scroll and unrolled it upon the tabletop. When all of the writing was revealed, she stared. On the parchment were a spiral and the kanji for knowledge, as well as the brushstrokes needed to seal it within the page. At first, she had no idea how to unseal the ‘knowledge’ from the scroll, but like a hazily remembered dream, the memory flooded into her. She brushed her fingers over the kanji, connecting her chakra with the seal, twisting it like a key. Wisps of smoke rose from the writing; she retracted her fingers.

A moment later, a stack of books suddenly appeared with the pop of released chakra. Mito emitted a strangled gasp of surprise, for there upon her modest tabletop were all of the texts that her father had supposedly burned, all the way from “Principles of Medicine” to “Life as a Cell” to “Basic Shinobi Techniques Volume 1: Chakra,” as well as a few other texts that her mother had added to the pile that Mito was certain Uzumaki Katashi had never consented be purchased. Mito gingerly touched the worn cover of a text called “Fuinjutsu Before Kaguya,” though its author was apparently unknown. The pages were so old and brittle that Mito felt that she might wear gloves just to turn its pages. There was also another old text, though not quite as old as the first, simply entitled “Uzumaki.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. All her life, she had believed that neither of her parents had ever really loved her, nor understood her, that Arata had been the only one who had ever even cared. And after all that, her mother came storming back into her life, not only confessing that she had silently been rooting for her success all along, but also paying attention to her private quirks, too. She wondered how much trouble her mother had endured to protect her favorite texts from Katashi’s ire, and was touched by the sentiment behind the gesture. It was disorienting, to find out that your mother really loved you after all. She wiped the tears from her eyes, filled to bursting with a newfound respect and admiration for her melodramatic mother and the secrets she had borne on her behalf. The reacquaintance with her mother—her _real_ mother—reinvigorated Mito. For the first time since she had learned what chakra even was, Mito had the urge to know what it meant to truly be a kunoichi. The self assurance and quietly simmering power of Uzumaki Nanami had made her envious. Uzumaki Nanami was a force to be reckoned with—sly, observant, and completely in control of the situation. No one had known her secret until the moment she had chosen to reveal it.

Mito wanted that.

And so, because her mother had told her everything she was apparently going to and not a word more, Mito went to the only other kunoichi she knew to try to learn more about the artful craft of female ninjas. Touka actually wasn’t that difficult to find. She was usually in one of a handful of places: training, gambling, or sleeping, and it all depended on what time of day it was.

At this time of day, it so happened that Touka was training. She usually went alone just outside the walls of the village, to a place where the land was still cut by fighting. When Mito arrived, Touka was sitting cross-legged on the ground, her hands joined together to focus chakra. “Uzumaki-sama,” she drawled, not even opening her eyes.

“I’ve often wondered,” Mito mused conversationally, “why it is that you are not invited to committee meetings.” 

Touka smirked. “Well, your first mistake was assuming I was not invited.”

Mito blinked. “If you are invited, why do you not go? If I could be involved in the planning of this village and its facilities, I would want to go.”

“Then go,” Touka stated simply.

“It’s not that simple,” she returned.

Touka raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Mito got the impression that Touka did not believe it was that complicated. “Planning commissions are for ‘samas,” she muttered by way of explanation. “I’d rather be out here. Training.”

Mito glanced about at the broken ground. “Doesn’t it bring back ugly memories?” Mito asked with concern. Mito hated it out here. Everywhere she looked she saw a Shinobi bleeding to death and begging her to save them.

“Exactly,” Touka deadpanned.

Mito frowned, not understanding. Touka seemed always, though, to understand the deeper meanings in situations without needing anyone to point them out. “Teach me,” she bade her. She did not feel a need to elaborate. Touka had purposely made herself available for few uses; it just so happened that they were her favorite ones.

She winked open one eye and smirked, looking sidelong at Mito. “How to master the rod?” she inquired.

Mito blinked, confused. “What?” Touka’s smile only broadened further, and though it took Mito a moment, she caught on to the jest. It was a crudely stated joke about controlling her husband through sexual means. Mito blushed furiously. “No,” she choked out. “Not that.” She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts. “To be a kunoichi.”

Her smirk stayed frozen for a moment, still amused by her own joke, as if to say, ‘same thing’. Then, she opened both eyes and stood. “Ahh, Uzumaki-sama…” she dragged the words out, emphasizing. “You already _are_ kunoichi.”

Mito’s head cocked slightly to one side. “You keep hinting at that. Why? Be more straightforward, please.”

Touka clapped her on the shoulder. Hard. Mito winced. “Because you are a woman. We’re all born with it. What do you think it _means_ to be kunoichi?”

Mito, naturally, thought about her mother. “Secret. Clever. Powerful. Is that right?”

Touka was nodding. “But there is so much more,” she added. Her voice was low and serious, lecturing even. “A kunoichi conserves her strength until it is needed. She is crafty, agile, and adaptive. She can add herself to any situation under any kind of duress without issue. She is the best of spies, the most dangerous of Shinobi. Men cannot be easily tricked by other men. _Every_ man is vulnerable to the wiles of a woman. She controls every situation, and no one will ever know that she pulled the strings. Most will never know that she was ever trained to do so. Some will never even know she exists. There are thousands of Shinobi, combat ready, willing to die for any cause, to lay down their lives in service of their banner. There are only a handful of kunoichi, and we stubbornly refuse to die.”

Mito listened, captivated by the momentum of Touka’s voice. Senju Touka had been raised in an era of war, a woman warrior from the time she could hold a kunai. It had never occurred to Mito that anyone could actually _enjoy_ the fighting. To her, war seemed like a curse in need of lifting. Touka made it sound like an elaborate, exciting game. But… “The war is over, Senju-san,” Mito stated, perplexed.

Touka snorted and wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Don’t call me that. Too stuffy.” She pointed to herself. “Touka-kun.”

“As you say,” Mito acquiesced. “The war is over, Touka-kun,” she repeated.

Touka’s eyes grew hard and icy. “Uzumaki-sama, as kunoichi, we are not afforded the luxury of that pipe dream.”

There was something dangerous and secretive lurking in Touka’s smoky eyes. It was a portent of something dreadful, and Mito didn’t want to be caught unaware. If Touka knew something that Mito didn’t, she would need to know what it was. She was tired of being a half a step behind the Senju. “I’m not sure what you mean. Why do you think that? The village is built… Senju and Uchiha are one, now.”

Touka’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decipher if Mito was serious or not. The weight of that stare was intensely uncomfortable, and Mito rubbed her arms, trying to warm them from the shivers. “Is that what you honestly think?” Touka asked quietly, scrutinizing mercilessly.

Mito’s eyes darted back and forth with uncertainty. Her first instinct was to fervently declare ‘yes,’ but Touka’s severity stalled her, and she choked on the word. _Touka_ obviously didn’t think that the war was over, and Touka was one of the few people that Mito knew she could trust. However, even if her answer was one that Touka didn’t like, Mito knew innately she needed to be honest. “Yes,” she responded meekly, sure that that was what she felt, but also sure that her answer was wrong.

Touka loosed a disappointed sigh and settled back on her heels, crossing her arms. “I see we have work to do,” Touka grumbled. “Lesson one: a kunoichi is _always_ at war. Peace is an illusion, a break between wars. Nothing more. When the next one comes, the men will be shocked, unprepared, and grim. The kunoichi anticipates the next war, always. It might be upon us next week, or ten years from now, but one thing I can tell you for certain… there will _always_ be another war, and the kunoichi, above all things, must be prepared for anything… _war most of all_.” She emphasized that last phrase, driving her point home.

Mito recalled what she knew about the ferocity of both Uchiha and Senju and shivered. Would she be prepared, if those two clans were to fight each other again? She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her beating heart. “What you say makes sense, Senj—Touka-kun,” she stated solemnly. “I will keep it in mind.”

“See that you do,” the other woman clipped. “Lesson two: the first person that needs your protection is yourself. You cannot hope to save anyone if you can’t first save yourself. Self-sacrifice is strictly forbidden. Dying to save another is for the idiot male Shinobi. This is what they believe they were born for: to die in the heat of the battle. To be remembered by having their name scratched on a rock somewhere, immortalized for deeds of glory, outshining their peers. Kunoichi _protect_ , they do not seek to be remembered. They seek to live, and to be forgotten so that they may continue to live. Only by living can you continue to protect.”

Mito nodded, her brows creased in concentration. Lesson two made perfect sense; by nature, Uzumaki Mito was already protective.

“Lesson three. There are no rules, morals, codes of conduct, regulations, whatever--” she made a slicing motion with her hand “--that take precedence over the people that you protect. You break any rule you have to to ensure mission success. Assassination, seduction, deception, sleight of hand, treachery… these are a kunoichi’s most important weapons. There is no mission that a kunoichi can complete with a blade that she could not have completed without one.”

Mito frowned. That one, she wasn’t so on track with. “I have my morals, Touka-kun,” Mito stated with concern. “They are important to me.”

Touka smiled sadly. “There will come a day, Uzumaki-sama, that you will have to choose between your honor and those you love. I pray that it won’t come soon, but will you be ready for it?”

Mito didn’t have an answer for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry... no Madara this chapter either. He'll be back soon, and then you'll wish that he wasn't, for his sake.


	23. Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back?  
> ...  
> ...  
> Grab the tissue box. You've been warned.

* * *

He was sure he was dreaming again when he saw her. The vision was so striking that it sucked the breath from his lungs. She didn’t disappear right away, though, as she had before, and this time he had the time to study her. Older, more mature, filled out in the face, yes, but with that same regal bearing and peaceful serenity that had drawn him to her in the first place. “It can’t be,” he said out loud to no one. He scrubbed at his eyes, pinched himself, and blinked several times, but the person he was looking at did not disappear.

 _“Miyu,”_ he breathed. Upon his lips, her name was the medicine that he needed, a drug shot straight into the vein, shaking off the cobwebs of his heart, filling in the spaces around his emptied soul, a vacuum, absorbing everything of her. The lift of the eyebrow, the gliding quality of her walk, the silken shift of fabric as she moved, and the far away look in her eyes, her thoughts elsewhere. What was she thinking about? More importantly, _how was she even alive?_

He followed her, entranced, wanting to observe her from afar for a little while longer, basking in the glory of just knowing she was alive again. Every moment she didn’t disappear breathed just a little more life into his shambling, hollow corpse. He recalled all of their few memories in vivid detail, replaying the time they had spent together, the gasp of his borrowed name in his ear, the cool touch of her chakra, and the strong front she had tried to muster when it was time to say farewell. Their last kiss goodbye… He wanted, very badly, to kiss her again, but he was still afraid that if he touched her, she might not be real.

Where was she going?

Near the edge of the village, she stopped and opened the door to what looked like a cellar and stepped inside. _Alone_. His heart thudded. He’d never been more excited or scared in his entire life. What if she wasn’t real? What if she had forgotten him? What if--?

His thought process stopped as his fingers involuntarily pressed themselves to the unlatched wooden door, giving a short, forceful shove. The door swung inward further, revealing the inky darkness beyond. There was a soft gasp of surprise, for she had surely not expected to be followed. “Identify yourself,” she demanded of his silhouette against the brightness outside.

His heart soared over the moon. Back then she had been adorably timid, innocent and sweet. The voice she commanded now was full of confidence and power. He nearly sighed with ecstasy just to hear it again. He felt as if he had come home at last. _“Miyu,”_ he whispered, taking a step inside and shutting the door behind him. The small cellar was plunged into relative darkness, the only light in the room from the crack beneath the door. He didn’t need to see; he knew right where she was.

There was a long, pregnant pause, a space in which only their breaths could be heard. And then, high pitched and strained, _“Masaru?!”_

He shut his eyes for just a brief moment and _bathed_ in that sound, letting the word linger, ringing, within his ears.

He could barely see her outline in the dark when his eyes blinked back open, but he felt her presence as brightly as if she were a beacon on the shoreline. He crossed the short space between them and enfolded her in a tight embrace, anchoring himself back to the world he had left behind. He had lost his way, but if she was found, he might be able to reset his compass. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered, his voice as thin as the light in the room. “I checked every village, crossed every border, knocked on every door…” Emotion choked his voice, Shinobi laws be damned. He sobbed. “Then I talked to someone who said he had seen you but that you were dead and I was… I was so… I _died_ inside, Miyu.”

She broke free from his embrace. “Before you say anything else…” she stated with importance, “...my name.” He took a deep breath, holding it. Her true name would have saved him so much trouble, but to know it now would still be his most precious treasure. “Uzumaki Mito,” she told him. “And I’m pleased to meet you.” It sounded familiar, but it fit her, somehow.

“Uchiha Madara,” he responded cheerily, knowing his face was wrapped in a stupid grin, thrilled to have finally been able to tell her.

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a soft “oh.” Had he said something wrong? “Uchiha Madara, the cofounder of this new village,” she elaborated. “Yes, I know your name.” There was another pause, longer this time. Darker, too, the joy dampened for a reason he couldn’t identify. Was it because she _had_ been with the Senju, all along? “I waited, you know…” she said sadly, quietly.

His heart tore a little to hear it. He couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to have waited for so long. It hurt even worse to realize that, since he had thought her dead, he had given up on her. “I marched from one end of the world to the other,” he told her fiercely. “I tore it apart to find you. Miyu—no, Mito, now—I’m here now. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not really that simple,” she hedged.

“Yes, yes it is,” he insisted, his voice growing in fervor, for there was no stopping him now. He had been a drowning man in a flood, and she would save him if he only refused to let go this time. He stepped toward her, invading her space with his presence, overwhelming hers. He wasn’t walking out of here without her. _Uzumaki Mito… my queen._

* * *

 

When he took a step toward her, she took a step back, unsure. She had thought that his ghost was exorcised, had pushed _Masaru_ so far from her mind that he was almost forgotten, a pleasant memory that had brought her too much heartache. She had loved him—truly, madly, deeply—but that time was past, a lesson to be learned from, cherished even.

She had Hashirama now, and he was good to her. She had vowed not to betray him, and she meant to keep her vow.

Although... Madara’s presence was intoxicating. His sudden appearance and invasion of her personal space swiftly dredged up everything she had suppressed as if not a day had passed. She felt immediately hot, deep inside, her locked up soul scratching at its bars and wanting its freedom. She had given herself to this man years before… the truest part of herself, the kind that you can only give to someone else once. He was her first love, and it was a wild, passionate kind of love, once in a lifetime, as he had said so himself. It scared her to realize that she hadn’t let go of him yet, and now, so suddenly near, she was drawn back like a moth to the flame. Any moment, her wings would burn, and she would fall in and catch fire, lost forever.

He leaned in close, and she knew that he intended to kiss her, and all she could do was freeze, paralyzed, torn somewhere halfway in between wanting to run and wanting to hold him and never let go. The indecision tore her in two, and she felt like a wretched woman to both of them, a far cry from the strong, willful woman she had been only moments before. Inches from her face, he paused, his breath a warm tickle upon her cheek as he caressed one wisp of red hair. “You’re fighting me. Don’t you love me anymore?” he asked, his voice pained and melancholy.

Questions between them lay unanswered. Where had he been all of this time? What had he been through? Why the soul deep ache? She hadn’t known him long, but she had _known_ him unlike she had known anyone, as if she could read the imprint on his soul, and right now it was telling her that he was hurting. If she rejected him, he might shatter into a million little pieces and blow away like ash on the wind. She didn’t want that. The truth was, she _did_ still love him… had never stopped loving him. He had been gone, sometimes forgotten, but she had never stopped loving him. Even now, she felt that dying ember flare to life.

So when he asked her that, how could she say no? If she said no, she would hurt him. ‘No’ would be a lie anyway. So she didn’t say it. “Yes,” she whispered instead, her heart pounding in her chest. This close… it was a dangerous line she straddled. Distantly, she was aware of the danger of this situation, knew that there was no way this could end well. But that distant voice was meek. Was a simple kiss a betrayal of her vows? Would that be enough to keep Madara from his depression? Maybe, maybe not. Without a solid answer, her opinion was easily swayed.

His lips pressed against hers, the gentlest of touches, tentative, barely brushing at all. She recognized it for what it was: an affirmation that she was really there at all. A touch only, just in case he was wrong… but it was enough to ignite a dying fire, drenching fuel all over it, and the hold on her restraint broke. Her heart blew outward, confessing all of its many quiet truths as she fell into his arms, kissing his face all over, crying all the while—with shame, with absolution, with relief. Seeing him reminded her of those years of painful isolation, and _just how badly_ she had ached for him. She forgot everything except the libertine woman in love.

She had only experienced true happiness twice, and both with this man. _Uchiha Madara,_ she reminded herself. _He has a name!_

As one, they took a deep breath, inhaling the other. _You’re real… you’re really here._ She felt the tears upon his face as surely as she felt the ones upon her own. Burning eyes, pounding hearts, frantic hands, caught up in the perfect storm of love and lust and treachery. She didn’t even feel wrong about it, not really, for hadn’t she been _his_ before she had belonged to the Senju? They had never thought to see each other again, and right then the only thing that mattered was that they were there, together, and still just as in love as ever they had been.

Mind awash with emotions and crazy thoughts, she randomly remembered that she was in the storeroom for a reason. “Can’t,” she gasped finally, practicality finally shining through.

“Must,” he countered, speaking against her lips, reaching for her obi.

She withdrew backward in alarm, her hands flying to cover and protect it. “They’re expecting me,” she dodged.

He stepped forward again, not to be denied. “Make them wait,” he commanded, his voice rising sharply in volume and power.

 _That tone of voice._ It was demanding, consuming, hypnotizing. She felt her blood leap, her muscles wanting to obey. She froze again, quivering, needing to run away but finding herself unable. The mastery that he had over her was unbelievable. “Mito,” he whispered again, more urgently, controlling her with the sound of her own name. “I _need_ you. I _love_ you. _Please_.” His voice shook with restrained emotions, but he had momentarily stopped advancing, giving her the respect she silently demanded, reminding her that he loved her and would do as she pleased, even if she wanted him to go.

“Madara,” she forced, her voice tense. “If I take too long, someone will come. The results will be disastrous.” She was fighting the urge to go to him, but it was so gods awful hard. “I can’t do this now. We’ll run into each other again,” she promised. She pushed past him, but he made no move to get out the way, forcing her to force her body past his, making way too much contact.

“Mito, wait,” he mourned, his voice haunted.

She ran.

She ran all the way to her house, realizing belatedly that she had forgotten the jars of jam that she had been sent for in the first place and hadn’t returned to the hall for breakfast. She’d need to make up some kind of excuse. Any excuse _not_ involving Uchiha Madara.

The door shut behind her, and she fell against it, breathing heavily, her mind abuzz with a thousand brand new problems, starting with the buzzing electricity in her lips. She touched them with her fingertips, feeling her heart go all to jelly within her. She had hardly considered the possibility that she might see him again, which was stupid. They had all guessed a long time ago that her lover had been an Uchiha, though none who had guessed had dared say it out loud. She’d been staring into the faces of his clansmen for months now, seeing bits and pieces of his features here and there. They all had dark, messy hair and black eyes. Of course he was an Uchiha.

Barring that possibility, though, she also hadn’t bet on being so easily ensnared in his energy once again.

 _Now what?_ She was torn between the love of two extraordinary men; one whom had captured her heart from the beginning, had taught her how to love, coaxed her into the sun to bloom, freeing herself from the chains of her family obligations. He had taught her to break the rules of tradition, to follow her heart, to trust her instincts. That, and he had given her Momoka, the child he didn’t know he even had, whom she loved more than she had ever loved another person, even him. The other was everything that a woman needed from a husband. There was no man more honorable than Hashirama, no man more deserving of her love. He had saved her from her suffering in Uzushio, shown her respect, and most importantly, given Momoka a future, for an illegitimate child, especially a daughter, had no place in traditional society. She would have had no fortune without Hashirama’s intervention.

Could she love them both, though? Decidedly not. _You’re an intelligent and moral person, Uzumaki-san,_ Tobirama had said. _I have the utmost faith in that you will do what you believe is right._

The obvious answer was to stick with Hashirama. They were good for each other. The relationship they shared was healthy, the steady, comforting glow of a candle. He was good with Momoka, and he was dependable and kind. Betraying him was simply not an option. She was forever in his debt; how could she repay his kindness by betraying his trust?

And yet… something dark and lonesome howled from within Madara… an emptiness, savage and poisonous. The way he had reached for her… the way he had touched her, as if she were the only thing left in his world worth living for… placed an unimaginable burden on her shoulders. Would she be able to live with herself if she was the reason for that pain?

She shivered to remember his touch, for he was still just as much the inferno she had known him as, and his touch and ignited her skin to flame, hot and all consuming. 

Each of them loved a different version of Mito, she realized. And now, it was up to her to decide which version she was.


	24. Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry. 
> 
> ....
> 
> Though your pain, dear readers, is quite entertaining. Love you guys.

* * *

Madara was even moodier than usual. His encounter with Mito had left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was a variable he was missing, and he had a feeling it was a pretty big variable. Undeniably, her feelings were still there, for when he had kissed her… he had to close his eyes and stifle a groan, trying not to be painfully aroused just from a brief encounter in a storeroom. She was much more woman now than she had been the last time he had seen her, brimming with boldness and power. She had been delightful as a young woman, but she was a completely different kind of alluring now that she was a woman grown. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, but he was keenly aware that it was sexy as hell, and he wanted more of it, and _yesterday_.

Despite that, she’d walked out on him with some lame excuse for a place that she needed to be. She had dodged him, and he was unsure why. In fact, the only explanation that could make any sense was that she was no longer available, but that wasn’t right. She had promised to wait for him, and his instincts told him that she was a good and virtuous woman. She had given herself to him. Him, and no other. She would honor that vow… that was just the kind of woman that she was. She would not have yielded to him all those years ago unless she had intended that he be the only one. That pure nature of hers was why he had loved her in the first place. She was precious, perfect, noble and sweet, unsullied and completely his. He had been sure to brand himself upon her, making such an impression as to ward off any other suitors.

She was his, then, now and forever. They had made a promise. He had kept it.

Hadn’t she? 

It didn’t take long for Mito to figure out that Madara and she were not to be. Madara was Hashirama’s closest friend, and Tobirama’s bane of existence. If she were considering _increasing_ the odds that Konoha should fail, _then_ she should pursue him. Any relationship between them was completely out of the question, even on friendly terms. At best, they could be passing acquaintances and nothing more. She was a wife and mother, an integral part of the village, and a public figure. Any display of infidelity or shirking of responsibility would look poorly upon them all…

…whether her heart wanted another or not.

For a long time, she wasn’t quite sure how to handle that conversation, so she mostly avoided it. She avoided going into town, giving the excuse that she just wanted to spend some time alone with her books. After plastering a smile on her face and relaying the details to Hashirama about her mother’s visit and their wedding present, her husband was pleased to see her so happy, satisfied to let her read to her heart’s content. He even took Momoka with him everywhere he went to give her some time alone. There was a time, long ago, when Mito was not comfortable allowing Momoka to leave her side. Hashirama had changed that

Now, Mito was grateful for the time to herself, to think. She didn’t read during this time, though, as she had said that she would. It was in these private moments that she learned exactly who she was as a woman, a mother, a wife, and a kunoichi. She had gained a lot of responsibilities since she had been nothing more than a woman in love. People depended on her. People trusted her. Besides, she was a logical woman, and despite the fact that she knew that she loved Madara more than anything, she still couldn’t really put a label on him as to why, as she could with Hashirama. In her mind, Hashirama was capable, responsible, handsome, compassionate, and a reliable father. He was a leader, and a husband.

Madara was just… _seductive_ , in every sense of the word.

In realizing that, Mito gained an understanding of wherein lay the problem, and what she must do about it. Just as Tobirama had predicted, she used logic and reason to make the decision that was right.

It was time to stand up for her beliefs.

When she was ready to confront him she traced him to the river. He sensed her long before she showed up and stood waiting, wearing an expression so joyful that it made her heart ache. He cut an imposing figure against the backdrop; if not for Hashirama, Madara might have been the leader of this village. Mito wasn’t sure why, but she figured that that bit of information was important to keep in mind. Madara was strong; from their first meeting, she had been impressed with his strength and his charisma, and mesmerized by his intensity and his aggression.

Back then, she had been weak. She didn’t doubt the depth of her love, or the validity of it. She might have been naïve, then, but she wasn’t a complete idiot. Madara had simply possessed a presence that had overwhelmed and consumed her, and she’d been powerless to stop it. She recognized, now, that it had been a mistake to lay with him. She wished she had had the presence of mind to resist, to insist that they marry first, and that he take her back with him. So many things might have been different, if they’d have gone about it correctly. Perhaps they would have been happy. She might never have known Hashirama. Perhaps, if things had been different, they might not even have the village, the place she now thought of as home.

Fate had had other plans for her. Be all that as it may, she _had_ lain with him. She _had_ gotten pregnant, and bore them a daughter. She had felt alone and abandoned, forced to raise a child on her own. She had been rescued by Hashirama, led gently into a world that he had created, given back her honor and a future. These things had all happened because of that mistake. Having regrets was senseless and illogical. What it meant to be a kunoichi, in her mind, was to make the most of the tools one was given. And right now, what she had was a good husband who made a more than adequate father and a village that she wanted to see thrive. Her plans, her feelings, no longer mattered. Following her heart would once again ruin Momoka’s chance at a future.

She wasn’t weak anymore. No, Uzumaki Mito was strong, and growing stronger by the day. She owed it to the Senju. Not to this man. This was her resolve, and she would not waver. Not again. “Uchiha Madara,” she greeted politely, putting up a thin barrier of formality between them, setting the tone.

He frowned, guessing correctly at the reasons for it. The sight of it bothered her, but she held strong. “Mito,” he returned, attempting to break that subtle barrier with intimacy.

Her lips firmed in a thin line. She would have none of that. “I would ask you to call me Uzumaki-sama.” She could have said ‘Senju-sama,’ but she wasn’t quite prepared for that conversation, if it could be avoided. “I am a woman of noble birth, and I deserve my name.”

Madara’s glower darkened further. “Stop this.”

She shut her eyes briefly, wrestling the meek, emotional woman within her that automatically wished to cave to his will. His power pulsed, emanating from him in magnetic waves, attempting to lure her. She wanted so badly to give in, but she needed not to. “Uchiha-sama,” she bit out. “I feel it is necessary to inform you—“

“ _Please_ , drop the formalities, Mito,” he bade her desperately, closing the space between them. The note of vulnerability threatened to break her. So close, she felt the heat from his body, and her breath caught in her throat. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

Nonetheless, she was able to throw up her hands between them before he reached her, keeping that frail barrier in place even as he sought to destroy it. “—to inform you--” she continued tightly, “—that I am a married woman, devoted to my husband.”

The world went momentarily silent as Madara completely froze. The look of shock and hurt on his face threatened to shatter her composure. She wanted nothing more than to hug him, apologize, and do whatever it took to eliminate the naked pain evident in his eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just continued to stare at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns and wings. “Madara…” she said softly, trying to find the words. There weren’t any, though. How did you tell the one you loved that you were with someone else? “I’m… sorry.”

“’Sorry,’” he echoed, his voice leaden. “You’re ‘sorry’?” He bit his bottom lip and looked away, his arms crossing over his broad chest, tightening, holding in the hurt. She’d used that same move before. It was easier now to see how weak she had been. He inhaled several deep, sharp breaths, saying nothing.

Mito had nothing left to say. She only waited for him to regain his composure, to say farewell, so that they could at least keep the memories.

Madara was having none of that. When he spoke again, his voice was low, menacing, threatening worldly harm. “I traveled from one end of this world to the other,” he began icily. “I dragged—an _army_ —across this land. We tore apart cities and villages. I asked every person on this _planet_ for news of your whereabouts.” With every confession, Mito felt another sharp needle of guilt stab through her heart. “I looked for you… for _years_ …” His voice shook with fury. “I made a promise, Mito.” He paused, his eyes locking onto hers for the first time since he had begun speaking. _“I kept it.”_

Finally, finally, finally, Mito found her backbone. Hearing him profess that he had kept his promise when she had waited for most of Momoka’s lifetime for him to show up and claim her incensed her. “Oh, you kept it?” she repeated, her own arms crossing beneath her breasts. “You promised you would come find me,” she accused. “You promised that ours was the ‘love of a lifetime,’ that you’d do _anything_ to keep me safe, tear the world asunder from one coast to the other until you found me—“

“I _did_ , Mito.”

“—and I believed you. I honestly believed that everything would work out perfectly, simply because I was in love with you.”

“Mito—“

“I went _home_ , Madara,” she continued bitterly, trampling his every attempt to get a word in edgewise. “To my father, who named me ‘whore’ to my face. I went home, and I stayed home, all the while believing that someday you would find me. I lived in shame and I—“ She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was about to reveal the existence of their daughter. She mustn’t do that. She paused and bit her lip, cooling her head before she continued. “I waited for you. You never came. I thought maybe you were dead. Or that you had forgotten me, or—“

“ _Never_ , Mito.”

“—perhaps you had a change of heart the moment your back was turned. I didn’t—“

“How could you think that?” he asked, his voice broken.

“I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK!” she shouted, flinging her hands to the air, her serenity destroyed. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until I was old and infirm? I had a chance to marry into a good family, and I took it.” She snapped her mouth shut, realizing too late precisely which words had escaped her lips.

His face slackened, looking suddenly drawn and very, very tired. “And which family is that, Mito?” he asked her. It wasn’t really a question. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he had guessed. When she bit her lip again and looked away, it only confirmed his suspicion. “It _would_ be the Senju,” he spat bitterly, turning his back on her. “It’s _always_ the bloody Senju. They’ve stolen everything else from me, why not you, too?” He threw his hands up in exasperation.

“I said I was sorry,” she said again. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Madara!”

“Not. One. Damn. Thing,” he answered, seating himself upon the ground, looking toward the river. “What am I supposed to do now, Mito? Live in the same place while the woman I love gallivants around with a man who was my enemy? I can’t stay here.”

She was torn between agreeing with him and trying not to agree with him. If he left, her situation would definitely be easier, but Hashirama’s dreams would be smashed to bits. If he stayed, though, his very presence would torment her. She wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to handle that yet.

The moment he mentioned leaving, Mito’s entire demeanor changed. It was then that Madara learned the true art of manipulation. With just a single threat, she caved. “Please, don’t leave,” she begged, bending to sit next to him—though not too close, he noted. He also observed how she carefully chose her words next to avoid naming her husband. She didn’t need to… Mito _would_ have gone straight for Hashirama. He was the logical choice; he had the bloodline of the Mokuton, the entirety of the power of the Senju, and that indomitable spirit that allowed him to survive a generation of warfare with a smile on his face and the ability to show mercy when others would not.

That didn’t change the fact that he was absolutely furious with her. He even allowed his dark mood to guide him into corners of his imagination he should never have explored. Hashirama had had his paws all over the woman that, by all rights, should have been _his_ wife.  

Oh, _that_ got him hot. The thought of Mito naked and moaning in pleasure as Hashirama fucked her made him see red and taste blood.

“Please,” she repeated, her eyebrows drawn together with concern—not for him, though, oh no.

He needed to hear her say it. “Why?” He needed to hear the reason she wanted him to be here, no matter what it was. “Why should I stay, Mito? Why?”

“Because…” She was choosing words again. The sad part was, he was proud of her for it, even if it meant she was against him now. “This village needs you,” she declared at last. “It would not exist without you. It cannot exist without you. So please, stay.”

He laughed, though he wasn’t amused. “You’ve gotten to be a good liar, Uzumaki-sama,” he drawled mockingly. “You don’t want me here. You _need_ me here, to keep precious Hashirama-sama’s dreams alive.” He caught her eyes again, watched her lips press together even more firmly, her eyes glittering with just a little bit of hatred. “You’ve become a real bitch over the years, haven’t you?”

Her mouth fell open in shock, stunned into silence at last.

He smirked, feeling mean, but alive, selfishly satisfied that he had pierced her perfect composure and hurt her, as he was hurting. “You think I can’t see right through your act?” he pressed, gauging her every reaction, picking apart the drama piece by piece. “I know your heart as well as I know my own. We share one heart, one soul. We both know it. Whether or not you mean to remain loyal to your lord husband, your heart still belongs to me, and _I_ don’t give away what’s mine.”

He stood. His back was stiff. His pride, wounded. Nonetheless, he was not defeated just yet. “I will wait, _Uzumaki-sama_. It is only fair, as I failed in making you wait for me. I will wait, and I will watch, and you will feel my eyes on you as you did then. Sooner or later, you will remember. It is I that had you first. It is I that will have you last. You know that I am right. I can see it in your eyes. You are fighting against your desire to be with me, and you’re losing. You came here to use the last of your willpower to tell me to go away.” He smirked. “Well I _will not_ go away. Sooner or later, you will come back to me. Until then, _Miyu…_ I will wait.”  

And somehow, he added for himself, he would have to find it somewhere within himself to forgive her.


	25. MADA/MITO, or HASHI/MITO?!?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really more of a hang on a second, I want to know what you're thinking. Feel free to skip it, but PLEASE DON'T!

Dear readers,

I ask you kindly, as I think this is a nice place to ask such a thing (right in the middle of the ANGST!)

Are you Team Hashi/Mito, or Team Mada/Mito?! Please comment below!

I'm not actually fishing for comments, though it might seem so. It's just that you've all been so delightful about commenting on this story that I'm glutting on your angst. I can literally feel your feels over here, and I'm eating that up. I know that some of you came in here, guns blazing, rooting for a certain pairing, but I also know that the way I've written this has challenged several of you. Don't worry, it challenged me, too! And *I* wrote it!

I'm just curious... as the story stands... what do you think is the right choice? What should Mito do? What would you do? Would you have done anything differently up to this point, if you were her? Because that conflict is the one that I was attempting to explore. She hasn't really had any easy decisions.

The more you can say on this matter, the more I will do happy dances and be super duper excited about it. This stuff really gets me going. I am SO PLEASED by all of your comments. You can ask any of my friends. I'm thrilled to see so many people writing in to express their thoughts.

Please, explain yourself.

Madara, or Hashirama? And MOST IMPORTANTLY... _WHY?!?_

 

P.S. Many, many, many thanks to you readers for writing to me. I can't say this enough. Your support will keep me writing (I'm actually working on one now, despite the fact that I said I wasn't going to). 

Much love to you all, dear readers,

\--Duckess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much!!!


	26. Focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys. I really, really do. SO, I made you this video! :D Don't worry... it's really a video and not some kind of horrific virus. I made it on my laptop and sent it to youtube. Here it is:
> 
> ...  
> http://youtu.be/amvtTaeflfo  
> ....
> 
> It's my response to all your fabulous comments!!! And you get to see me, the depraved mind that brought you this miasma of emotional pain. Now you can hate me properly. ^_^
> 
> Or think of me as you profess your undying devotion. I will accept either form of payment.
> 
> You guys have been so wonderful that I felt I needed to share another chapter with you. I should warn you though... if your Feels are still tender and wounded, proceed with caution. This ride is still in motion.

* * *

His thoughts were entirely elsewhere when he arrived at the appointed place. Tobirama was already there. So, too, were Hyuuga Hiroto and Sarutobi Sasuke. Hashirama had yet to arrive. With the exception of Tobirama, they all seemed to be in a pretty good mood—which, of course, only soured his further. He made eye contact with Tobirama; at least in this matter, they agreed. The committee meetings seemed to piss both of them off each and every time. It was probably the only thing he had in common with Senju Tobirama. “Uchiha-san,” Tobirama greeted with the barest inclination of his head. It was never ‘Uchiha- _sama_ ’ with Tobirama, but it was a battle that Madara had chosen to ignore to keep the peace.

“Senju,” Madara greeted blithely. Minus the head nod, and with a similar amount of disrespect. The barest narrowing of Tobirama’s red eyes were the only inclination that he had affected him.

It was at that moment that Hashirama pushed his way through the door to a fanfare of the laughter of a little girl upon his shoulders, screeching and bouncing on his shoulders as if she were riding a warhorse into the committee room. Madara frowned severely at the sight. It was bad enough that he had just lost the love of his life, but seeing how she had made a life with someone new burned something fierce. _A Shinobi does not show emotion._ It had been a long time since he had had to actually remind himself of that. Nonetheless, this girl changed nothing. Mito and Madara were one soul. He would have her, one way or the other. Their destinies would not have it any other way, of that he was certain.

Hashirama was grinning, caught up in his play with the girl up until the moment that he bent low to allow the child to dismount. The two of them, hand in hand, walked over to the table.

Madara wasn’t a fan of children, but he humored his friend anyway—for they _were_ still friends, despite everything. Hashirama had likely had no idea of Mito’s duplicity. At least, he _better not have_. “Who’s the brat?” he asked, forcing the barest of smiles onto his face.

“Momoka-chan, my daughter,” Hashirama answered cheerily. “Momoka-chan, manners,” he ordered firmly. The girl’s face grew serious. “This is Uchiha Madara, your oto-san’s very dearest friend. How do we greet our friends?”

The girl, who was perhaps five, straightened her posture and came close to Madara. They made eye contact…

…and Madara’s breath fled his lungs in a rush so fast that he almost fainted. Those dark eyes… that deep, blood red hair, messy, but pulled back from her face on both sides by rubber bands… her apparent age… _Fuck me_ , he thought, realization smacking him about the face and ears. As she bowed—perfectly—with a “Pleased to meet you, Uchiha-sama,” and he mumbled the appropriate reply, Madara’s blood boiled in the cauldron of his heart.

_That’s my daughter._

He wasn’t sure how he knew, just that he _knew_. He could see Mito’s passion and composure in the child’s bearing, see the brewing secrets in her eyes. The hair was undeniably his even if the color had come from Mito, and that inquisitive, intense nature was _all_ Uchiha. He continued to stare at her, taking in everything from the tilt of her chin to the way her bangs were trying to escape their bands, the way her hands clasped together politely, those tiny, adorable dimples at the corners of her mouth... Each of these was a confirmation of her parentage. Meanwhile, his heart was shattering and remaking itself, scouring his emotional center completely raw. He was breaking and reforming, recreating his ability to feel anything while trying not to die from the force of it.

_Dear gods above... I’m a father._

He had never thought about being a father. And yet, in the empty, scrubbed away place in his soul, a love more intense and pure than anything he had ever felt before welled up from within, shoving Mito and Izuna both roughly aside. Instead, the girl—Momoka, his _daughter_ —imprinted herself upon his heart and soul, the most important person in his monochromatic world. The center of his universe. One thing he was absolutely sure of: not even death would keep him from his little girl. It took every fiber of his being not to scoop her up right there, squeeze her tightly, and murder every man in that room just because.

He remembered absolutely nothing of what was talked about at that meeting. The whole time, he had spent staring at _his daughter,_ putting all the ill fitting pieces together, painting a picture that made a tragic kind of sense. It was small wonder Mito hadn’t waited patiently for him to return, for their era was not one that was kind to bastard children born out of wedlock.

 _What Mito must have gone through_ … he thought with sadness, imagining her unwed, pregnant, and alone in a world where women were hardly valued in the first place except as breeding factories for expendable soldiers. He wished he had been there for her, wished he had been able to feel the life grow within her— _their child_ —and sing offkey songs to their unborn baby. How many things would have been different, if he had only defied his father back then and taken her back to the Uchiha encampment--! _Too late, again. Too damned late._

His eyes stared into the back of Senju Hashirama as they exited that room, for he had realized, in part, what had happened. Somehow, Mito had found Hashirama in time to convince him that the child was his, and tricked him into marrying her. _Can’t say I blame her,_ he thought. Actually, he commended the cleverness of her choice. Marrying herself to the leader of the Senju had given their daughter a future of promise and fortune. No matter what had happened, Madara found it singularly impossible to hate Hashirama for marrying his true love. At the very least, Hashirama had kept her safe and well provided for.

 _Too clever by half,_ he thought fondly of Mito. She had definitely made the best of her predicament.

In that moment he forgave her completely. There was no reason to attach himself to resentments. Mito had found herself in an impossible situation with a detestable choice. Madara was not a woman, and would never be able to understand what she had gone through in the process of arriving at a decision. Likely, it had been extremely difficult for her. 

_I went home, Madara, to my father, who named me ‘whore’ to my face._

He frowned, his thoughts going quiet with regret and determination. He would make everything better, he vowed. Together, they could make a lifetime work. Him, Mito, and the child they had made together. Hashirama would just have to accept that Mito preferred Madara over him. He could keep his village and his dream, but Madara _would_ have Mito and Momoka. Hashirama would understand… for Madara understood Hashirama as well as he understood Mito.

He followed his old friend home.

* * *

 

She thought she was imagining things when she heard Momoka talking to someone. Hashirama was away with Tobirama, and Mito had dozed off in her book while Momoka herself was napping. When Mito woke up, she heard Momoka carrying on a conversation, but she couldn’t hear a second speaker. Thinking perhaps Hashirama had come home early, Mito went to her daughter’s room.

As she rounded the corner of the hallway, she saw Momoka’s smiling face. “Oka-san!” Momoka greeted brightly, bouncing lightly on her mattress. Mito began to smile, too, except that as soon as the entire bed was in view, she saw a very unwelcome figure atop it.

“Ah, there she is!” Madara smiled, the contortions of his face not reaching his eyes. “Tell her what you told me,” he cooed at her, petting the scarlet feathers of her hair, his eyes never leaving Mito.

Momoka clapped her hands together, a flush of excitement rising in her cheeks. “Uchiha-sama says that if I want to I can learn to use fire like he can, and if I’m brave and strong, to have pretty red eyes that match my hair! I told him that would be neat, because Oto-san said that if I wanted to learn to make the trees grow, it would take a long time, right? I don’t want to wait.” She crashed into the mattress, grinning, obviously pleased.

Mito bit her lip to keep from speaking, the color draining from her face. _No, this is not okay._ She looked from Momoka to Madara and felt her blood run cold. It was the first time she had ever seen the Sharingan, and it chilled her from within. He merely watched her carefully, like a panther stalking its prey, waiting for a sign of weakness. What did those blood red eyes see in her face, she wondered?

With a start, she realized what Momoka was saying, the implications a sick and violent shock to the peaceful tilt of her world. Madara had discovered her secret, and knew that Momoka was his child. Momoka might possess the Sharingan, and Madara meant to train her at it. “No!” she snapped, more harshly than she intended for the fear in her heart. 

“Oka-san!” Momoka whined, taken aback by her tone, tears automatically leaping to her eyes. Not the fake ones that she tried to use on her sometimes to get her way, either, but real, feelings-hurt tears. “Why not?”

She had never had cause to raise her voice with Momoka, but her fear was making her snappish, and she was eager to see Madara leave her house immediately. “Because I said so, Momoka-chan,” she dismissed impatiently. “Time for bed.”

“Oka-saaaaan!” she shrilled, her bottom lip jutting out. How unfair the world was!

 _“Momoka-chan!”_ That silenced her. Her lower lip trembled, and then she looked to Madara instead of Mito. Mito had had enough. _“Uchiha-sama,”_ she urged with an angry whisper. “A word?”

The corner of his lips titled higher, smiling with smug satisfaction. “Of course, Uzumaki-sama.” He turned back to Momoka and hugged her tightly. “Until next time, Momo-chan,” he murmured fondly. The way he hugged her and the sweetness cradling her name were... surprisingly genuine… and that scared Mito.

“Okay,” she pouted, curling up for sleep. Madara even took the time to tuck the blanket around her.

Mito stalked across the house to the front door and jerked it open, gesturing sharply for him to go outside. He did, slowly, deliberately, in no hurry at all. With an exasperated sigh, she followed. She would need to ditch him quickly. Hashirama might come home early, and the situation would be completely awkward if that happened. “What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered loudly.

He crossed his arms, squared his stance, and stared _through_ her. “I know about Momoka,” he accused, his smirk and all hints at trickery abandoned. In their place was the intense, predatory stare of a man who saw something he wanted and would have at any cost. “And you _won’t_ keep her from me, Mito.”

Mito shook her head incredulously and clenched her jaw with irritation. She and Hashirama had perpetuated a great, big lie. If the truth were revealed now, everything that they had worked toward would be lost. She _could not_ waver in this. “What about Momoka-chan?” she asked tiredly, feigning indifference.

“She’s _my daughter_ ,” he stated with finality. “Don’t deny it.”

“Of course I deny it,” she snipped immediately. “Momoka is my child by Hashirama.”

“You’re lying. I _felt_ it, like the whole world tipped over at once the moment I saw her, jarring my sense of reality. I see it in her _hair_. In her _face_. In her _speech_. She looks just like me… and you.” He gripped her shoulders gently, rubbing soft flesh and peering into her eyes, the Sharingan dispelled. 

“I _know_ you love me, Mito. And that little girl in there is _our_ child. I know your secret. I forgive you and I love you nonetheless.” He plucked at her chin and smiled, but it was sweet and genuine this time. “I will love you forever, no matter what sort of torment you visit upon me. This is my punishment. I know that now. I took too long, and now I suffer for it. But I will suffer gladly,” he added, “because I know in the end you’ll return to me, and we’ll live the life we always wanted.” He kissed her forehead then, without permission, and disappeared into the night.

Several hours later found her staring futilely at a book in her hands, reading the same line time after time after time. “You waited up,” Hashirama purred to her with a smile. “Miss me?”

Mito’s heart ached just to see him. Hashirama was a wonderful man… he didn’t deserve any of this, any of her wickedness or the treachery of a friend. And yet, she still didn’t have the heart to tell him. What if he wouldn’t love her anymore? Or worse yet, what if he told her to go to Madara, to forsake him and their marriage? The thought was an alarming one. As Tobirama had been fond of saying, Hashirama was too soft, too self sacrificing. If he learned that Mito had loved Madara before she had loved Hashirama, he might step down in favor of his friend, as if she herself had no say in the matter. 

Then again, she wasn’t entirely certain that she _did_ have a say in the matter. If the two of them together agreed she belonged to Madara, what _could_ she do? 

She didn’t deny that her heart wished it, but Hashirama might be fool enough to pin the future of their village on something as irrelevant as their love triangle. Still, Mito was determined to solve this problem herself. Whatever it took, she would support her husband, further his legacy, and protect Momoka. He was the best of them all, and he deserved that.

“Always,” she lied in response to the question. She laced her fingers into his and kissed him, drawing him into their bedroom, throwing sultry eyes in his direction.

He smiled, blissfully unaware of the drama in which he was unwittingly participating, and followed her cue. In the dark, as they made love, she could almost believe that her life was exactly as she wanted. Hashirama, Madara… it mattered not in the blackness, for she didn’t even have to choose. They may as well have been one in the same, in those moments.

But as she lay awake, listening to Hashirama’s soft snores, imagining the scarlet wheel of the Sharingan watching them from the windows, Mito cried.


	27. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the rather slower update. I kind of had a bad day with a troll on the internet. *sigh*

* * *

Mito tried to stay busy and unattainable, wanting neither to do with either of them. Madara was a constant pain to all of her senses, for she both wanted him and wanted him to die at once, just to make him go away. Never in a million years would she have thought that her love life could get this convoluted with her limited experience. Of all the men in the world, she had landed both of the universe’s powerhouses: two strong willed, uniquely powerful, worthy men, who just so happened to be both friends and enemies, depending on the day.

She sighed heavily. She hadn’t asked for this.

“Something the matter, Uzumaki-sama?” peeped the rich feminine voice from behind the surgical mask. Mito met the dark, long-lashed doe eyes of Uchiha Kasumi. Kasumi had been Mito’s counterpart for the Uchiha army, a courageous field medic who refused to wait in the safety of the camps for the Shinobi to drag their wounded home. In a sense, they had become friends. There was much that they could teach each other, and Mito found a sense of peace when her hands were working. The more Madara tortured her—and the more Hashirama didn’t—the more Mito attempted to absorb herself with occupation. She’d been at the medical building all week, working closely with Kasumi to create a written record of all of the techniques they had learned working with the Senju and Uchiha armies to immortalize the skills.

Mito looked away from where she had written the same word several dozen times and shook her head. “No, Kasumi-chan,” she lied. She was becoming adept at feeding lies to the masses, for in this she had found that Touka was right. She was continually sacrificing bits and pieces of her honor and morals for the sake of those she held dear. Momoka’s secret was of paramount importance. If she had to lie about it every day to Madara’s face and the ears of everyone else, she would do so, to preserve the future of her daughter.

Many nights, she worried that Momoka’s future involved red eyes and far, far too much death. She didn’t want that for her daughter.

She gently snapped the book shut and looked over at Kasumi, wondering how much she could trust the woman that was dissecting a cat and sketching pictures in a notebook. Kasumi believed in understanding the ways of life before trying to fuss with the ways of life. I.e, one should not attempt to heal an organ if one did not know what it even looked like. Mito appreciated her approach very much, actually, and at this moment in time, she thought to use that fact, perhaps, to learn something very important. “Kasumi-chan…”

“Uzumaki-sama?” She never paused in her ministrations; Kasumi, like most women, was a natural multitasker.

She inhaled a deep breath. “Do all Uchiha have the Sharingan?”

Kasumi paused in the process of slicing away a layer of fat from the abdominal cavity of the cat. Mito watched, but her concentration was on the woman with the knife, not the cat. “There’s a reason for this question,” Kasumi accused. There were times when Mito thought that Kasumi’s chatter was born of vapid stupidity, a complete disregard for her surroundings and the people she was with. This time, though, there was a sharp suspicion lurking deep within her black eyes, and she scrutinized Mito so thoroughly that Mito wanted to take a step back.

She had misjudged Kasumi. It was a valuable lesson, and one she would not forget. “Now that our two clans are allied with one another,” she began conversationally, “I was wondering what would happen if Senju and Uchiha were ever to marry.” She held her breath, hoping that she had dodged the worst of Kasumi’s suspicion.

The other woman continued to stare at her, weighing and measuring, determining Mito’s worth. “The secrets of a clan’s abilities are kept only within the clan,” she stated carefully, watching, waiting for the telltale signs of subterfuge.

Mito wasn’t dissuaded. “What if someone from outside the clan married into the clan though?” she pressed. “Would they be allowed to know?”

“It would never happen,” Kasumi said with the weight of certainty. She tore her eyes away from Mito and refocused her blade upward, slicing through the tough bone of the chest cavity to peel the animal open, exposing lungs and heart.

Mito’s curiosity was in full tilt. Just like that, the nature of the interrogation was actually changed. Mito had never had the chance to study kekkai-genkai, and she doubted most people would ever get a chance like this one, to be able to study and understand that enigmatic Sharingan. It was worth the risk. “Why not?” she wondered aloud.

Kasumi shrugged dismissively. “Uchiha don’t marry outside the clan,” she replied, just as certain as before.

Mito found that interesting. After all, they had only known each other for a couple of days before Madara had asked her to marry him. Wasn’t he the clan leader? _Maybe he doesn’t know,_ she considered. “When do Uchiha children learn this?” she further inquired.

Kasumi sighed with mild irritation. “They don’t ‘learn’ it. They _know_. Every Uchiha knows that they are not to look outside the clan. It’s forbidden. It’s clan law, just as strictly enforced as ‘do not steal’ and ‘do not commit adultery.’” She spoke with patience and condescension, as if she were talking to a child. She paused and sketched a quick picture, her dark, pretty eyes flickering back and forth between her pencil and the exposed chest cavity.

“Oh.” Interesting. Very interesting. “Hypothetically speaking…”

“What’s this about, Uzumaki-sama?” Kasumi asked, dropping the pencil and drawing herself up to her full height. She was more than a head taller than Mito, and she hadn’t needed the height advantage to make Mito nervous anyway. She kept her gloves on, though, and squeezed her hands together to keep from touching anything else. “You’re not just thinking out loud. You want to know about the Sharingan. I want to know why. What’s your motive?” Those dark eyes demanded, would not have ‘no’ for an answer.

Mito got the sense that if she gave the wrong answer this time, someone important in the Uchiha clan was going to hear about it. Probably Madara, and that would not turn out well for her. She sighed and came up with a better lie. “I’ve always been interested in clan genetics,” she said with a shrug. “Like my red hair… the Uzumaki clan’s trademark red hair seems to be a mostly dominant trait, though it’s recessive in most others. I’m also curious as to whether or not Momoka will inherit the ability to use Hashirama’s Mokuton. Inheritance of abilities fascinates me, is all, and you’re the only Uchiha I can talk to about this. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m used to people shutting down my inquiries.” She threw in those last few lines to appeal to Kasumi’s kindness, one woman talking to another about how little they were taken seriously by the men of their era.

Kasumi stared, judging her. Several minutes passed. Finally, Kasumi returned to the cat; apparently, Mito’s gambit had worked, after all. “What do you want to know?” she asked, albeit reluctantly.

Mito’s heart leapt, feeling like she had gained a small victory on her path to being a proper kunoichi. “Does every Uchiha bear the Sharingan?” she repeated her question.

“No. Very few Uchiha inherit the Sharingan, and even the ones that inherit may never awaken it. That’s why the Uchiha may not marry outside the clan. We are paired together into marriages that are the most likely to produce a child with the Sharingan. The Uchiha have known the science of genetics for centuries. Our genetics are carefully recorded and tracked. Promising Sharingan users are only allowed to marry a woman that possesses or carries the allele for the Sharingan.”

Mito’s interest in medicine and science was not feigned. Hearing Kasumi’s explanation inflamed her curiosity ever further. “A carrier? So it’s recessive?” Carriers were people who contained the recessive gene for a trait. Because it was recessive, though, it was hard to tell who the carriers were without having a complete background on a person’s parentage. This was all very exciting for Mito, for she had never had formal training in genetics and had always wondered.

Kasumi nodded. “Of course, it’s easy to see which men carry the trait. It’s the women that are special in that regard.”

Mito knew she was close to the answer she sought, which was: _will Momoka manifest the Sharingan?_ “Why?”

Kasumi smirked and paused, holding in a secret. She cut out the heart of the cat and set it down in a tray for further dissection, then took a second to jot down a note. “The Sharingan is X-linked recessive. Among women, possessing a Sharingan is exceedingly rare. There are few carriers, even, which makes them much sought after as wives. This is also partially why the Uchiha breed so many children. Daughters are next to useless for Uchiha except as future breeding stock, and sons have perhaps a 50% chance at best to be gifted with the Sharingan.”

Mito considered all of this new information with rabid interest. _X-linked recessive…_ she recalled the chapter in the book she had read on genetics. An X-linked gene was located on chromosome X. Women had two X chromosomes, where men had one X and one Y. That was what determined gender in a child, which meant that in the case of the daughter, she got one X chromosome from each her father and her mother; and in the case of a son, the boy always got the Y chromosome from his father and the X chromosome from his mother; Now it made sense… if the gene for the Sharingan was located on the X chromosome _and_ recessive, women who possessed this allele were necessary to breed Sharingan users. Which meant… “So, if a woman does not possess this gene at all…”

“Exactly,” Kasumi picked up for her. “No Sharingan babies. That’s why the Uchiha will never marry outside the clan. It’s bloodline suicide.”

Which meant Momoka would never have that ability. And… “And you said all Uchiha know this from a young age?” Kasumi nodded. “What about you? Will Kagami have the Sharingan?”

Kasumi paused again, a sly smile creeping slowly across her face. When she turned her face back toward Mito, both of her eyes shone red as brightly as the cat’s blood. The red eyes on Kasumi, framed with long, dark lashes, actually looked quite pretty, though they were still just as frightening as Madara’s. They seemed to Mito to be unnervingly unnatural, though for some reason Tobirama’s red irises never bothered her. “Oh,” Kasumi proclaimed smugly, “I have a feeling he’ll be alright.”

Mito’s breath caught as her brain quickly generated the genetic distribution of Kasumi’s children. If her husband wielded the Sharingan--and if what Kasumi said was true about tracking Uchiha genetics, she was reasonably certain that Kasumi had married herself to a Sharingan--then there was a 100% chance that all of Kasumi’s children would possess that gene. “Good for you, Kasumi-chan,” she said honestly. Kasumi, being an Uchiha married to an Uchiha, would be thrilled to produce children with the Sharingan.

Kasumi grinned with pure happiness. Mito, for her part, was glad for her inferior genetics, but one thing about their conversation had troubled her. _Madara had lied._

* * *

 

Madara walked the streets of the village as if he were the sole leader, and not just a counterpart of Hashirama. Ever since he had learned of Momoka, he had found a new lust for life. She was something worth living for, something to look forward to, a reason to be a better person. That kind of knowledge made him feel stronger than ever before, and from that strength was born an odd and wholly unfamiliar brand of compassion and understanding.

Everywhere he looked, he suddenly saw hope and promise. He greeted people he had never met before with a smile and a wave, stopped to help people who were attempting to carry burdens that were too great, and lent his strength where several men were trying to raise up a new storage shed for curing meats. Not long ago, Madara simply wouldn’t have cared whether or not anyone knew who he was, but now… as he lent his assistance and generally made himself involved, people thanked him and called him by his name, and Madara felt… good.

 _Thank you gods,_ he sent up a silent prayer. He understood, now, that he was being tested. When he was on his back beneath Tobirama’s sword and at Hashirama’s mercy, and yet demanded a life for a life, the gods had sent him a test. When he had stopped Hashirama from spilling his guts on the rock, the gods had seen fit to reward him. They had brought him back Mito, and given him Momoka, and all he needed to do was prove that he was worthy of them. For the time being, Mito was loath to leave Hashirama’s side because Hashirama was… well, Hashirama. He was kind, and good, a true leader.

 _Madara_ had never been able to hate him, and so it would follow logically that Mito would not be able to hate him either. The only way that Madara would earn her devotion back was to outshine Senju Hashirama. That was entirely in the realm of possibility, though, and so he would try. They had grown up competing against each other anyway. One more contest wouldn’t hurt, to show them once and for all who was the better man, and this time for certain, Madara was _not_ about to lose.

“Evening, prick!” Madara greeted Tobirama with a grin.

Tobirama’s only response to the insult was a slight narrowing of the eyes. “You’re… early,” he observed. “You’re never early.”

“We have plans to make,” he declared simply, sliding past Hashirama’s younger brother—Izuna’s killer, he would never forget that—to find his chair at the planning table.

Hashirama was already there—he was always early. He smiled and waved. Momoka was there, too, and followed suit. It gladdened Madara’s heart to see her there. “Konichiwa, Uchiha-sama!” Momoka called to him, waving gleefully.

“Konichiwa, Momo-chan,” he said to his daughter, reaching out to ruffle the blood red of her hair. He loved the color on her. It was too bad she wouldn’t have the Sharingan; as a kunoichi she’d have made a terrifying sight. She grinned, her night-dark eyes watching his every move. That bright curiosity reminded him so much of Izuna that his chest ached.

Hashirama watched their interaction with a measure of happiness, then said, “You seem to have really taken a shine to my daughter.”

 _If only you knew,_ Madara thought with twisted amusement. He flashed him a smile laden with secret meanings, then kicked back in his chair, relaxing, fully prepared for whatever important lords’ business they were about today. “She’s a sweetheart,” he replied honestly.

Hashirama, fully at ease himself, came back with, “It’s good to see you smiling again. I’ve been worried about you.” He leaned over the table, resting his chin on steepled hands. He made it sound as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Maybe it had.

“I was grieving,” he responded. It was true, and it was a believable sentiment that they both understood well. “You have so much still to keep you going, with Tobirama and your family and the village. I just needed to find something that worked for me.”

“Ah!” Hashirama proclaimed, laughing, his merriment filling the room as always. “Sounds like a woman!” Madara chuckled with him, laughing at his own private joke, though he doubted Hashirama would have found it funny. “She must be a fine woman, to have gained your attention!” Hashirama continued, unaware of the hole he was digging himself, entertained by the kind of normal conversation two men their age should have.

The longer this dragged on, the more entertained Madara was. In fact, it might serve to disappoint him if he was unable to enjoy it for as long as he wanted. When he answered, his smile was wry, and he felt smugly satisfied. “My friend, you have _no_ idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From reviewer LChan3706 on "Chapter 25": "What if she gets the sharingan, that will be pretty hard to explain to the villagers. What a scandal!"
> 
> That IS an excellent question, and I'm so thrilled that someone thought of that!!! :D I hope my explanation worked for you. It's always fun to be able to throw science into a story somewhere. I had never thought to try to explain the genetics of a kekkai genkai, but it was necessary here, as you pointed out.
> 
> You guys are so brilliant. ^_^


	28. Protect

“I’m going to tell him,” Madara told her seriously when the charade had gone on long enough. He had her cornered in a dark alley, but she might as well have had _him_ cornered for all of her indifference at the situation.

“Tell him what?” she asked serenely, giving no hint as to the truth that she still desperately kept hidden. She had definitely learned to keep the lid on her emotions. It made her fun to play with, to keep trying to come at the secrets she protected from the side, a diverting game to coax her into spilling them herself.

He kept up the same story, though. Whatever happened, with her he would be honest. The longer Madara was honest, the more Mito would falter, for he had still done nothing wrong and was undeserving of any blame or ill treatment. “That Momoka is my child. That you and I are lovers.”

“ _Were_ ,” Mito corrected vehemently. “We _were_ lovers. And for the last time, Momoka is not your child.” It wasn’t the last time she had said it. She kept saying it, again and again, growing more and more distressed. Madara had been certain of it anyway, but Mito was doing nothing to convince him otherwise. Her frustration flagged her lies.

He ignored her. “If you aren’t going to tell him, I will. Hashirama is my friend and deserves the truth, so one of us has to tell him. You’ll only be lying to yourself then. You will feel better after he knows, wait and see. You and I still love each other, and Momoka is _our_ daughter. She needs me, needs a father.”

“She already has her father,” came the tart reply.

“Hashirama deserves the truth,” he repeated. “Once he knows, he will not want to keep us apart. He’s too good to do that.”

Mito sighed and tossed her head, annoyed. “Tell him whatever you want, Madara. He already knows what the truth is, and nothing you can tell him will change it.”

Madara frowned, wondering if what she said was true. It was more likely that she was bluffing, to keep him from saying something and ruining their perfect little life together. No matter. He would tell Hashirama anyway, just to be sure. And once he had, the rest of this story would play itself out the way that it was meant to. He smirked, watching the woman in the alley work herself into a tizzy trying to protect her lie, and he admired her. Mito had grown into an imposing woman.

How he longed to possess her again!

“We will see,” he replied cryptically. He turned to go, then decided that more needed to be said and returned. “Mito…” He splayed his hand above her shoulder on the wall behind and leaned over her. She shrank back against the wall, her eyes going wide. “You’re scared and angry… that I wasn’t here when I needed to be. I’m sorry for that, and for the way I acted when you told me you were married. I was upset, but I was wrong. Watch me. I will show you just how good I can be, that I can be here for you and Momo-chan.” His voice softened even further, his face inches from hers. He wanted to kiss her, but he knew that he shouldn’t. If he did that, she’d take back a little more of the trust he had been coaxing from her. “You love me, Uzumaki Mito. You may deny it, but you can’t hide your true self from me. I see your heart as easily as my own. Soon, you’re going to lose this senseless battle you fight with yourself. When you do, I’ll be there to catch you.” He poked her nose and smiled, then released her.

“I know about the Sharingan,” she declared, her voice emotionless. 

He stared at her, unsure of what to say. That had been a poorly calculated bluff on his part, but he hadn’t considered that she might have a friend amongst the Uchiha. _Careless_. 

She took advantage of the opening inherent in his hesitation and escaped. He observed the stiffness of her posture and the way she kept nervously glancing behind. When she was gone, he sighed with longing and sagged against the wall. _Not much longer now_ , he thought with a private smile. After their committee meeting that evening, he would talk to Hashirama, and then there would be no more secrets.

* * *

 

“Touka-kun,” Mito stopped the warrior suddenly, grasping the armored forearm and yanking her roughly.

Touka seemed to appreciate the rough contact. She smirked and offered a salute. “Uzumaki-sama,” she greeted. “How may I be of service?”

Mito felt determined. Strong. This secret of hers was a handicap, and she would shed it, before Madara had a chance to share their secret on his terms. “I need a night alone with my husband,” she said calmly. “Can you please take care of Momoka-chan tonight?”

Touka raised an eyebrow. “You want to trust _me_ with a child?” she asked rather incredulously, wry humor etched into every line of her armor. “I live in a single room. My only roommates are wicked sharp, and some are coated with poison.”

Mito frowned. “Put them in a box. It has to be tonight. Please, do this for me.” Touka didn’t say anything. Mito leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Touka-kun, you taught me to be a kunoichi. This is something I have to do. I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”

To that, Touka brightened, even laughed, pleased as punch. “Oho, Uzumaki Mito! Which weapon are we using today? Seduction? It’s not my favorite, but then I’ve always preferred the messy weapons.” Mito smiled slyly, but said nothing, caught up in the conspiracy and Touka’s penchant for the dramatic. “Although,” Touka added as if to herself, “I suppose seduction can be messy, too...” Touka planted her hands on her hips and laughed again, her head tipping backward. “Very well, Mito-kun. I will distract your daughter so that you can seduce her father into obeying your whims. Leave it to me. Oh, I should mention, too… if you feel as if you’re failing and cannot afford to lose, try putting your mouth on it for ultimate mission success.” She winked.

Mito made a strangled sound and nearly tripped as she sprinted off--away from Touka and her not so subtle hints--to find Hashirama… before Madara could.

She found him talking in a quiet voice with Tobirama outside of their committee room, both of their expressions severe. Hashirama’s arms were crossed, and he was nodding, listening. Tobirama was gesticulating with his hands, emphasizing certain words with closed fists. Not wishing to be impolite, she waited.

He smiled as soon as he caught sight of her and held one finger up in Tobirama’s face. Tobirama stopped talking and looked in her direction, flashing the briefest of smiles before turning and walking into the building. Mito got the impression from it that she had forced the wedge ever so slightly deeper between the two brothers, despite the best intentions. She made a note to check up on Tobirama later, to determine whether it was necessary to make amends. 

Hashirama walked toward her grinning. “Well,” he greeted, his voice rich with love. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Hashi…” she said softly, placing deliberate palms upon his chest, her first tentative step towards sexual manipulation. “Can you come home, please?”

His smile softened, eyes hooded with desire. He rubbed his own hands up and down her arms and gazed into her eyes. “I shouldn’t,” he pouted. “Tobirama-nii-san will be angry with me if I leave him to deal with our advisors alone.”

“Because of Uchiha Madara?” she inquired innocently. She hadn’t officially ‘met’ the man, but the lack of love between Tobirama and Madara was well known throughout their village. He nodded. _Time to try it out, Touka-kun_ , Mito thought. She stuck her lip out and pouted a little, gazing up at him through her lashes. “Hashi, please…” she whispered. “You’ve been gone so often, and I miss you. Can’t they handle it without you, just this once?”

He bit his lip, his eyebrows rising toward his scalp. He looked around, back at the open door, weighing his desires and his obligations against each other. He sighed, stared at her, doleful, but Mito could see he was wavering. “I sent Momoka-chan to Touka’s for the night,” she purred, shrugging one shoulder, blushing and peering up through low lashes. “We have the whole house to ourselves... So we don’t have to be quiet…” She leaned into him and pressed her lips to his.

“Mmm,” he moaned against her lips, surrendering, pressing fingers into the sweeping curve of her back. She pulled away slowly, leaving him standing alone in the frozen photograph of a kiss, and his eyes slowly fluttered open, as if he had been asleep. “I suppose…” he relented, “...that I can get away. Just this once. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

As he turned to disappear inside, Mito smiled to herself. Touka was right. Properly employed, a woman’s body was a very dangerous weapon. Funny how she used to believe that it was more of a commodity than anything, an object to be given away in negotiation for other commodities like land and trade. Using her body to get what one wanted was extraordinarily useful and… strangely thrilling.

When he arrived, eyes softened by adoration and only for her, she decided to put off their conversation until later. After all, how often _was_ it that they had the house to themselves? Momoka’s absence meant that she didn’t have to suppress the volume with which she cried out, and it was a luxury she had never been afforded before. As he loved her, her mouth dropped open wide and she yelped and mewled and cried out his name with abandon, exulting in the freedom of an empty house and a clear schedule. It was a rare opportunity for both of them, and he, too, seemed best pleased by the idea. When he bit her, she yelped. When he blew cold air over needy places and kissed the insides of her thighs, she mewled. And when he gripped her hips and filled her and jerked her towards him, she cried out his name and hissed with pleasure.

She had so much fun, she almost forgot why she’d really invited him back to their home in the first place. It wasn’t until he had almost dozed off in exhausted bliss, arms spread out wide on either side, that she remembered, and by then she almost couldn’t bring herself to bring it up. “Hashi, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Hm?” he answered, barely awake.

“Do you remember that man I saved on the battlefield? The one you asked me to hide? The one I told you later I didn’t need to know?” Her heart thudded nervously. She still wasn’t sure how he was going to react, but told herself she would be prepared for anything.

“Mmhm.” He winked open one eye.

“I know who he is, now.” She traced lazy circles around one of his nipples, trying to focus on not looking at his face, just in case he would be angry with her.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Uchiha Madara. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

He took a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly through his nostrils. “Yes.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she asked, “Why don’t you like to talk about him?”

He caught her eye and hesitated. Then kissed the top of her head and took another deep breath. “We met and became friends when we were children. We didn’t know each other’s family name back then, though I think both of us had guessed. We should have been enemies, but we wanted to be friends. Both of us had lost brothers. Both of us were Shinobi. Later, our fathers found out we were friends and wanted us to spy on each other, but we warned each other of the trap, and our families almost fought. We became enemies again that day, and we fought each other hundreds of times since then before becoming the leaders of our clans.”

“Why did you have me save him, then, if he was your enemy?” she wondered aloud.

He sighed, clearly uncomfortable. “Mito…”

She sensed that he really didn’t want to talk about that. Did he think she might not understand? Nonetheless, she had to know. “I won’t judge you,” she promised. It was only fair, based on the information she was also about to reveal.

“Even when we were enemies, to me he was always my friend. This village was as much his idea as mine. I could have killed him at any time, but I never wanted him to be killed, and held onto the hope that someday we could be friends again and make our dream happen. And look!” he finished with a forced smile, begging her not to ask any more questions. The reason for it was clear now; Hashirama had saved the life of a man that had killed many of his own people, and he had used her to do it. 

She smiled, basking in what might have been her last moment of happiness with Senju Hashirama. Noble to a fault, always trying to see the bigger picture. “I see,” she responded. The smile turned into a frown then, her voice growing more serious. “Hashi… I love you, you know.”

Beneath the side of her face, she felt him still. She had never said it before, a fact of which she was well aware. His arms closed around her and held her close, and he kissed her hair again. “I love you, too, Mito.”

“There’s something I need to tell you, and it’s why I wanted you to come home. Please don’t be angry.”

He didn’t bother to promise that he wouldn’t, but he did kiss her again. “I’ll love you no matter what,” he said instead, as well as, “You can tell me anything.”

She took a deep breath. “Madara is Momoka’s father.”

_There. She had finally said it._

There was a long, long silence, and Mito didn’t dare interrupt his thoughts. Then he asked, “Does he know?”

She swallowed, still nervous about where this conversation was going, or what Hashirama was thinking. The question he had asked did not preclude him from dissolving their marriage to allow Madara his chance, as she feared. “I didn’t tell him, but he saw her and believes she is his.”

“Of course. He’s not an idiot.” More silence. “You love him, too, don’t you?”

“No,” she lied too quickly.

Hashirama chuckled and saw right through it. “Come on, Mito… don’t lie to me. We don’t choose what the heart wants. That’s why the gods gave us brains, too.” He tugged on her shoulder. “Come here,” he softly commanded. She followed his motions until she had settled next to him on the pillow. They both turned onto their sides, facing each other. Hashirama’s expression was patient, but serious. “I hope you will believe me when I say that I did not know, when I married you. But as Momoka-chan grew, I could see him in her. I... guessed. She can be such a serious child, sometimes. If I could go back and do it over, Mito, I’d have taken you to him, and you’d have been happy, and you and I might have never met. Who knows what else could have been different.”

Mito listened silently, for she had had the same kinds of thoughts.

“This is the path that we chose instead,” he continued. “I love you, and I love Momoka-chan. I will love you both with everything I am until the day that I die. I can promise you love and respect and the freedom to do whatever you wish. This lie we began—that you and I made that wonderful little girl—is the truth now. Any man can be a father, but not just anyone can be oto-san.” He caressed her face and gave a small smile. “You do whatever you feel you need to, Mito,” he told her. “I won’t blame you for it. But whatever you do with your heart, make sure your brain is in agreement. You have a strong and brilliant mind. If your logic leads you away from me, then away from me is the best choice, and I’ll support that decision no matter what.”

His compassion never failed to amaze her; the level of relief at his words threatened to make her cry. “Well, I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay,” Mito answered, feeling assuaged. She had been worried that Hashirama would cast her out, even if instinct told her better.

He grinned, then dove in for another kiss. “Then let me deal with Madara,” he said against her lips, pinning her arms to the mattress. “Tomorrow… because tonight we have the house to ourselves.” Mito giggled, squirming in his grasp. Then he bit down—hard—on one breast and she gasped in alarm. “Sorry,” he murmured, though the tone of his voice indicated otherwise. “I didn’t get my dinner today, so you’ll just have to do.”

“It’s my fault,” she said silkily, grazing his legs with her toes. “I had other things on my mind this evening.”

“I’m not complaining,” he mumbled as he began trailing kisses across her body. Then, abruptly, he bit her again. She yelped, then laughed, as before. “But I’m just sooo hungry…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amy on "Chapter 25": "If I was MIto, I'd firstly tell Hashirama the truth about my past and see how he handles it. Considering he's Hashirama... I think he'd be pretty much understanding. Sorry, but he's just such a good guy. I'd lie to Madara and tell him that the daughter is Hashirama's..."
> 
> Nailed it! :-D Congrats!
> 
> MOAR DRAMAAAA. OH MAN THIS HURTS. Comment, comment, comment!!!


	29. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know most won't complain about the super quick updates... I'm trying to minimize my Plate of Distractions before November, as it is National Novel Writing Month here (NaNoWriMo) and I'm going to be taking a break to write something original. 
> 
> I was hoping to have this one finished publishing (and the fic I'm working on finished with it's first draft) before November happens. 
> 
> I don't think I'm going to make it. :(

* * *

Mito woke before her eyes did, awareness seeping into unwilling muscles. She stirred, moving arms and legs ever so slightly, unwilling to greet the morning. When finally, she was certain that she could no longer drift back into her dream as she had been the past several hours, her eyelashes fluttered open and she rolled onto her back.

Beside her, Hashirama turned over too. She watched as his right hand lifted partially off the bed, then began pawing at the air, the blankets, as if looking for something. When finally, his hand settled on her arm, he heaved a great, deep breath, sighed, and drifted deeper into his sleep.

Mito smiled, moved. It was as if he had only needed to reassure himself that she was there, and was at peace again. She laid her own fingers over his, surprised at how much she meant to him. They hadn’t loved each other when they had married, but… as Tobirama had said, he was impossible not to love, after all. _Hashirama has a way about him._

 _That he does_ , she agreed, content. For a while longer, she stayed in bed, watching the sky beyond their window brighten and bleed away its colors. She was well awake by now, but did not want to wake him. Hashirama never indulged in late mornings, often rising before the sun and staying out late for this meeting or that ceremony, busying himself with the village and all of its many necessities. It was good to see him sleeping in, being a little selfish for once. It warmed her heart, too, to watch him sleep. When he was awake, he was always alight with energy, practically flying from one task to the next without pause, weighted down with one thousand responsibilities that he preferred to do himself. She liked the peaceful, unburdened look on his sleeping face. _Such a busybody_ , she thought fondly.

 _I always make sure to save enough energy for you,_ he had said.

She covered her nose with the other hand as she blushed profusely, remembering the day before. She wasn’t ashamed of the sounds that had come out of her mouth, nor the way she had begged him to stop teasing her and give her some relief. It seemed that he had always managed to push her beyond the limits of what she thought she could handle, never a selfish lover, until she could scream with frustration for his glacial patience. Things were so… different, with him. Solid, and real. Safe. He made her want to be a better person just to keep up with how truly wonderful _he_ was.

That did it. She decided to prove her worth and make breakfast, letting him sleep. Slowly, carefully, she bunched up the blanket where she had been sleeping and tucked it under his hand, hoping that in his sleep he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He didn’t even flinch. She slipped on a robe and some slippers, then made her way to the kitchen, made a pot of tea to start her day, and headed out towards the porch to catch the last of the sunrise and sip tea.

As she pushed open the front door, though, Touka’s head swiveled on her neck, her lovely face intense in the lingering shadows of morning, and she regarded Mito out of her uncovered eye. “Mito-kun,” she greeted quietly, smiling. She turned a little further, and Mito espied Momoka nestled against the woman’s armor, snoring softly.

“Touka-kun!” she gasped, startled by the insistent presence of someone on her porch. Her fingertips flew to her chest to still her pounding heart, the tea sloshing dangerously up the lip of the cup before crashing back on itself.

“Shh,” Touka urged, using one steel plated hand to mime ‘lower the volume.’ “Now that you’re up, I can move her to her bed. I just didn’t want to wake you. I was sure you’d worked hard to tire him out, so...” Her voice took on a playful quality. “Did you have fun last night?” Mito reddened and opened her mouth to speak, but Touka mowed her over, raising her hand to forestall her. “Tell me later. Momoka-chan first.” Then, without further comment, she rose from her seat on the porch and brushed past Mito to go into the house.

Amazing, Mito realized, how silent Touka could be when dressed head to toe in metal armor. Funny that Touka had seemed concerned with waking them; Even coated in steel plate, she was quieter than the house itself at rest. She’d have to ask about that someday, but for the time being she was just confused as to why Touka was here so early. When the other woman reappeared on the porch, Mito sat beside her on the top step. “Was she that much trouble, that you had to bring her back this early?”

Touka stared, confused. “What? No! In fact, she’s much smarter than I thought a child her age should be,” Touka recounted. “I thought all brats were stupid.” She smiled fondly, remembering. “I taught Momoka-chan all about the poisons I keep. She learned them all within the space of an hour, then we went for a walk out in the woods and she was able to correctly identify every one that grows native here. She even discovered what I think might be a new one, so I’m going to run some tests on it today.” Touka’s eye glittered dangerously, caught up in her excitement.

“Poisons?” Mito repeated weakly. Leaving her child with Touka had been a desperate gamble. No one else she trusted had been available, and asking Madara to care for her would have given up her motive. Nonetheless, the fact that her very young child had spent an entire day learning about deadly weaponry was a matter of some concern.

Touka slapped her shoulder and laughed quietly. “Don’t be so glum, Mito-kun! You’d do well to have a daughter that can protect herself. What if she gets kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped?” she echoed again, rubbing her tender shoulder as her panic rose higher.

Touka nodded once, emphatically. “She’s the only child of the Senju clan chief. An enemy who wants to strike a decisive blow to the might of the Senju would want to have her killed or controlled. Surely the thought has crossed your mind?”

“No,” she admitted, feeling foolish. Though the thought probably _should_ have crossed her mind… Maybe Touka was a good choice for babysitter after all. Not only did the kunoichi seem to enjoy mentoring her child, Senju Touka was an effective warrior, and her gender might cause the enemy to underestimate her skills. Besides Tobirama, Hashirama, and herself--and even in her private thoughts, Mito refused to consider leaving her with Madara--Touka was probably best able to keep Momoka safe.

As if she could read her thoughts, Touka continued, “You can bring her over any time. She’s a delight. I see your calm mind in her, and your intelligence. I can also sense an inordinate amount of chakra welling up within her, preparing for the day that she learns to infuse it. Some day she is going to be an excellent kunoichi, like you.”

“I’m not—“ she began, about to say that she wasn’t an excellent kunoichi--she was barely passable as one at all--but Touka cut her off.

“You are. You just can’t even see it yet. Last night, for example. I’m not sure what you needed to convince Hashi-sama to do, but I’m sure he’s going to do it, right?”

Mito shut her mouth and sipped her tea, which only elicited another laugh from Touka. She returned to her original question. “Why are you here so early, then?”

Touka frowned and pouted. “You promised to tell me what your top secret mission was all about. You’re not going to go back on your word, are you?” Her expression darkened, so similar to Hashirama’s randomly depressed moods that Mito had to smile.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” she said to herself as she finished her tea and set the cup aside. She was tired of handling this situation between Madara and Hashirama alone. Another person’s guidance—particularly a woman’s, particularly Touka’s—would be more than welcome at this point. “Actually, this is good. I need your advice. And please, keep this quiet.”

Touka brightened immediately, slapping her fist over her heart. “You can count on me, Mito-kun!”

“I mean it, Touka-kun. What I am about to tell you could spell the end for this village, if we are not careful.”

Touka’s facial features slackened, growing instantly serious. She leaned in closer. “I promise. There is no one more loyal to the Senju brothers than me, Mito-kun. I can promise that.”

Mito wasn’t worried. She just wanted to be absolutely sure Touka understood that she must not speak the truth to anyone. With a deep breath, she told her tale, feeling blissfully relieved to finally reveal the truth twice now. “I knew Uchiha Madara before Senju Hashirama,” she confessed. “Hashirama asked me to save his life while he lay dying on the battlefield, before I knew either of them. I thought I was in love—“ she still _was_ in love, but it would feel awkward to say so to this woman, “and I gave myself to him. We didn’t know each other’s names. I had no idea what I was really doing, only that I was caught up in the moment, and the war.” Touka listened silently with grave, unreadable interest. “When I left the Senju camp, I was pregnant. Tobirama had begged me to go home. If anyone had known what I had done, if any Senju had guessed that my child was part Uchiha, there was a significant chance that Momoka’s life might have been in danger.”

Touka nodded once, grimly, affirming that concern. “So Momoka-chan is Uchiha Madara’s child,” she stated. Mito nodded. Touka breathed long, kicked her heels out in front of her on the porch. “That _is_ a pretty big secret. What about Hashi-sama?”

Mito smiled with the gratitude she felt for Hashirama. “He heard about what had happened, and tracked me down to marry me off of Uzushio. I told him the rest of the truth yesterday. Madara was going to tell him otherwise, and I wanted it to come from me. He thinks we should stick to our lie, that Momoka-chan is his daughter.”

“Ahhh,” Touka nodded with understanding. “This is because of his…” She stopped. “Well.” Touka smiled conspiratorially. “ _You_ must know.”

Mito stared at her blankly. It had never crossed her mind that _Touka_ might know. She shook herself. “Yes. Because of that. Ever since then, we’ve sworn that Momoka is his child, and that we were already married beforehand, but that wife and child were sent to safety during the war.”

Touka grinned like a bobcat. “It’s brilliant. I bet you it was Tobirama’s idea.”

Mito shook her head ruefully. It shouldn’t surprise her by now, how perceptive Touka was. “It was,” she confirmed.

Touka pursed her lips in thought, then added crossed arms to her lounging position upon the porch. “I suppose you are telling me this now because of Uchiha Madara. I don’t suppose you were stupid enough to tell him. So, he must have figured out your secret, and has started some trouble over it.”

“Well, it’s not quite that simple…” she stalled, laughing nervously.

Touka saw right through her. “You still love him,” she deadpanned. Mito suddenly felt very small. The silence stretched between them, holding her answer aloft like a flame. “And Hashi-sama? You love him?” Mito chewed on her lip and nodded. Of that one, at least, she was not ashamed. “Who is it that you want more, Mito-kun?”

She swallowed. _Madara_. “Hashirama,” she answered quickly.

Too quickly. Touka caught that, too, the infuriating woman. “Oho, Mito-kun! I asked which one you _wanted_ more. You _are_ a crafty kunoichi, aren’t you? A clever woman would obviously hang onto the Senju warlord. He’s handsome and has all of the proper connections that a good kunoichi could use to her advantage. And, too, how fun was last night, hm?” Mito blushed and looked away, and Touka laughed. “But as to who you _want_ more…? Well. The heart is seldom that simple.”

“Touka-kun, please,” Mito pleaded, sick with nerves. “This is very difficult for me.”

Touka’s smile vanished, her expression smoothly transitioning into solemnity once again. “You’re right, of course,” she said quietly, even more subdued and sincere than before. “Love seldom makes any kind of logical sense.” She went quiet for a time, lost in her own private thoughts. At last, she forced another smile on her face. “I will help you, Mito-kun. I understand your predicament, and I know exactly what to do.”

Mito blinked. “You do?”

“Of course! Just leave it to me, and don’t worry about it, okay?” She clapped Mito’s shoulder again, causing her to hiss with pain. _That_ was going to bruise. “Sorry,” Touka immediately apologized. “Too excited! You go on inside and take care of your family. And please, don’t tire out my clan chief needlessly.” She winked and stood, stretched, cracking joints and groaning at the strain.

Mito was worried, though she couldn’t say why. It was only that Senju Touka seemed to find entertainment and personal delight in the kind of tasks that often left people, men in particular, dead or bleeding. “What are you going to do, Touka-kun?” she asked nervously.

“Did I not just get done saying not to worry about it?” Touka chastised. “Kunoichi business. Subtlety and subterfuge and all that nonsense are my weapons. If I told you, I might as well be dragging the sharp edge of my blade flat against stone. You’re kunoichi, too. If you can’t figure it out, it will be a good test for you to sharpen your talents. But good luck figuring _me_ out, Mito-kun!” she added, stabbing one thumb against her chest. “I have had a lot more practice at this than you.”

She wanted to argue, but didn’t want to reject Touka’s help so soon after asking for it. “Okay,” she relented, though she still wasn’t--quite--reassured.. “I’m trusting you with this.”

Touka grinned, happy again. “And as I said… there’s no one better to help you in this than me. Trust me.” With another whole hearted salute and a wave to someone behind her that Mito had not noticed, Touka made her leave.

Mito turned to the newcomer and saw Momoka, yawning and rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Hungry,” she grumbled, pouting. Mito smiled fondly as she gathered the girl to her, kissing the top of her head. “Go back and lay down. I was just getting ready to make breakfast. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

“No,” she pouted. “I’ll wait.”

Mito winked one eye closed. “If you wait out here you’ll have to smell bacon long before it’s ready, and it will only make you hungrier.”

Momoka made a face, a frown so reminiscent of Madara’s scowl that Mito blinked and had to look twice. Then, with a melodramatic sigh and flailing display of displeasure, she grumpily marched back to her room.

When the house smelled entirely of bacon and pancakes, Mito went to wake him up. To her mild surprise, his eyes were open. The sheet covered him from the waist down, though his toes poked out from the end of them. “Come back to bed,” he pleaded groggily. “It’s too early.”

“Too early?” she challenged. “You’re usually three hours gone by now.”

He pouted and lifted the blanket, silently asking her to return. She sighed and did as she was bid, and he enveloped her in his arms, tucking his face into the crook between her neck and shoulder. “I don’t want to work today,” he murmured. “I’d rather just stay right here.”

She smiled despite herself, wishing for exactly the same thing. “Just for a short while. Your breakfast will get cold. Or Momoka-chan will eat it.”

“I’ll eat it cold.”

“But Momoka-chan might still eat it.”

“She probably needs it more than I do.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” she asked with exasperated fondness.

She felt his smile upon her face. “Always.”

“What’s better, then, bacon or pancakes?” she teased.

She felt his grin broaden. “Bacon pancakes.”


	30. Preservation

* * *

Finally giving up, Mito set the Fuinjutsu book down. She enjoyed learning the sealing techniques of her mother’s predecessors, but she was still puzzled by Touka’s cryptic remarks about kunoichi.

Touka kept insisting that Mito was born a kunoichi, even if she’d only recently learned how to manipulate chakra. She had never been combat trained, either. She had learned to enhance her strength, mostly just so she could move patients without assistance. She knew medical jutsu, too, but Fuinjutsu was still new to her, and furthermore, it didn’t seem to be particularly flashy as a fighting technique. Besides, Mito had never even picked up a kunai or a shuriken _. How can one be a ninja without basic ninja tools?_ she wondered.

Still, Touka was convinced. Mito respected Touka, and knew without a doubt that Touka was a capable and effective Shinobi. Mito had never had to heal the woman. If Touka believed that Mito was a master kunoichi, then she had to have had some reason to believe so. Touka would know better than she would. What had she said about being a kunoichi?

 _A kunoichi is always at war._ Presumably that meant that even when there was no fighting, a kunoichi was still on the lookout for enemies. Enemies did not always have to be obvious; a spy could be just as dangerous as a ninja with a katana. It made sense… but it didn’t seem immediately relevant to what she was going through.

 _The first person that needs protection is oneself._ Touka had persisted that a woman should never risk herself for the sake of another. There was no way to help the ones she loved if she was dead or in some other way incapacitated.

 _There are no rules that take precedence over the people she protects._ Sometimes, honor and morals would need to be set aside in order to achieve ultimate success. She had already experienced a little of that. Some of her lies had led to further lies. It was becoming difficult to keep them all straight.

She shut the cover of the Fuinjutsu book, running fingers over the worn leather. All three of Touka’s lessons had to have something in common, a single defining principle that separated the men and women of the Shinobi world. If she had to label them each based on a single word, what would the word be? She tapped a finger to her lips, comparing the nature of one such as Touka or Nanami to the nature of one such as Madara or Hashirama. She had never seen any of them fight, so the concept in and of itself was elusive, but…

Touka. Nanami… _Preservation_. To a one, they seemed to center their principles around protecting something precious, never risking themselves without a reasonable chance of success, and using cleverness in lieu of brute strength. Wily, agile, and compassionate, protecting the ones they deemed important. Smart, seldom able to outpower another but usually able to outsmart.

Hashirama. Tobirama. Madara. _Aggression_. The men seemed ready to risk their lives wholeheartedly for the ones they cared about, issuing threats and ultimatums, blasting the ferocity of all of their power in an all or nothing attempt to overwhelm another. Danger. The kind of threat that was obvious, that sought to subdue with intimidation and strength.

_Touka-kun, I think I am beginning to understand._

Smiling with pride, she leaned back in her chair, feeling the rightness of it. That was it. Whatever Touka was about, it must have revolved around preservation. What else had she said? _There’s no one more loyal to the Senju brothers than me, Mito-kun._ That and _good luck figuring me out._ Still, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she was certain she was close. Trying to think of what she would do in her situation didn’t help either. If that had worked, she wouldn’t have needed Touka’s help in the first place.

_If I were Touka… what would I do?_

* * *

 

“Hashirama,” he spoke. The other man paused in his journey, and a moment later so did Tobirama, wearing his usual impassive mask. He didn’t need to talk to both of them, though, and the very last thing on this earth he wanted was more time around his brother’s murderer. He glared death at the white haired man, wishing he could meet him red glare for red glare, but knowing that it would result in a fight if he did. The two stared each other down, assessing threat versus give-a-damn.

“Go on, otouto,” Hashirama bade him. Tobirama’s eyes flickered from the back of Hashirama’s head to Madara and back. Then, without a word, he continued on his way.

Madara caught up with Hashirama, feeling as if he were about to fight a battle as they began walking together. That same, eerie calm shifting into excitement overtook him. Calm, for he would need it for this conversation. Excitement, for loving Mito was what had made him feel alive, and he had only used battle to fill that void. “There’s a matter of some personal importance I think we need to discuss,” he said in a low voice.

Hashirama’s lips thinned into a firm line, his eyes narrowed, and Madara sensed a menacing but subtle wave of hostility. It was so unlike the man he had considered a friend that Madara faltered in his steps for just a second, momentarily nervous. “There’s nothing to discuss,” Hashirama said softly, his voice deceptively calm, the kind of tone that trapped fools into picking a fight with the wrong Shinobi, right before he was eviscerated. Madara knew that warning well; he himself wore it like armor, most of the time.

“It’s about Mito,” he continued, not to be dissuaded. Madara had never feared this man. Whether they chose to fight with words or stones or pillars of fire and timber, Madara was his match, and he would not back down from this particular fight.

“My wife.” Two words, carefully placed, just so. It was a challenge, a gauntlet dropped, for if Madara dared say otherwise, the fight would begin. He could just leave those two words right where they had fallen, walk away as if nothing had happened 

He understood. But he still wasn’t going to let her go that easily. The fact that he was braced for this fight was telling, however. “She told you.” Madara had thought that she had been bluffing. Two miscalculations, two victories for Uzumaki Mito; he was tired of blundering.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” he repeated calmly. “Leave it.”

He heard the unspoken challenge, bristling, muscles coiled and cocked back. _Unless you want to lose again._ It was his very last warning, a chance to leave his claim silent and let them be. He almost took it. If it had only been Mito, he might have. He wanted no quarrel with Hashirama. Not anymore.

Now, there was Momoka.

“She’s mine,” Madara hissed, meaning both of them.

Hashirama stopped, his face whipping sideways so fast that his hair flew. The dark pupils in his eyes flared, absorbing imaginary bubbles of testosterone, prepared to fight a war. “She’s not property,” he whispered loudly, meaning Mito, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “She will do as she likes, not what we choose. And whatever it is that she decides, we will live with that. Is that clear?”

Madara almost laughed, the thrill coursing through his blood like sweet honey. Hashirama had all but admitted that Mito had not made that decision yet. He knew that Madara had a fighting chance, and it was likely what had made him pissy. “Crystal,” he replied with a smirk. “But whatever she chooses, Momoka is definitely mine. She’s a child. She doesn’t get to choose her parents like Mito chooses lovers.” 

Hashirama’s teeth grated, his nostrils flaring at the infraction against her dignity. “Mito will decide for her. And that, too, you will accept.”

Madara’s eyebrow rose a fraction. Hashirama’s careful choice of words suggested that he believed he would definitely win that particularly battle. He left their conversation feeling very well informed and victorious.

* * *

 

Sighing with exhaustion, Madara dropped his armor on the porch and walked into the house. He didn’t even pause to light a candle. Truthfully, he saw fairly well in the darkness… at least well enough to walk through his home without incident. He lived here, after all. He could tell you how many centimeters from the wall his chair was, or the exact location of every discarded shirt.

 _I really need to tidy up,_ he thought, operating under the notion that Mito could want to come here any day. He wanted to be prepared for when that happened. It would not look good for him if she finally agreed to spend some time with him only to walk into a mess of dirty clothes and uneaten food. In fact, that extra room that he was using to store all of Izuna’s old things could be reorganized to make room for Momoka. The thought brought a smile to his face; Momoka, giggling as she ran through his house, Mito tucked into his side.

He was actually considering lighting the candle anyway, and tidying up that very evening, but then he realized just how tired he was. _Probably better just to buy a new place anyway,_ he decided. _Or let Hashirama build me one,_ he thought with a mischievous grin. It was mean spirited, but he liked that idea best. It would be poetic justice for his old friend to have to build the place that Madara would live in with his ex wife and their child.

He sighed, feeling exceptionally tired. He had spent the whole morning torching fields to prepare for planting. Setting fire to fields was the most effective method for clearing, since the weeds would be gone and turned into an excellent fertilizer, and he could accomplish that task much more quickly and safely than most. All he had to do was use Amaterasu to consume the usual flames, and then put it out. The villagers had been quite grateful. Then, he’d spent the evening meeting with some of the local shop owners to discuss what kind of regulations should be in place about what could and could not be sold in a regular shop, and which kinds of things would require a special permit. Dealing with people was profoundly exhausting in its own way, and after the chakra exertion of the first part of his day, he was feeling tired. In a good way, though. He felt accomplished, productive.

If he kept at it, people would look up to him with the same kind of admiration as they directed at Hashirama. He smiled as he tugged his shirt over his head. He liked where Mito was leading him. He felt good about himself, constantly making small improvements for the purpose of helping others. He was actually starting to think that if he left, people might miss him. That was a welcome change. For most of his life, he had been respected and feared, but generally not well liked. He hadn’t cared before.

He cared now. He tugged off his gloves, dropped his shirt on the floor and stood still, considering all that that might mean for him and his future. _With Mito and Momo-chan,_ he added fervently.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his senses flaring in alert. Very suddenly, very urgently, he felt the presence of another in his home. He hardly had any time to react to whoever it was before he felt, rather than saw, the deadly approach of a blade intent on ending his life. He managed to raise his hands in time, somehow instinctively finding the exact location of the blade. Sharp steel sank into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his hands.

Madara was an exceptional Shinobi, however, not to be outclassed that easily. He detached himself from the pain; it wasn’t life threatening, and the important thing was that he had stopped the blade. He couldn’t see his attacker in the darkness; whoever it was, he was draped head to toe in hellish black. Even his eyes were barely visible. Too late to kick himself for not lighting a candle—though, if the attacker had suddenly snuffed the candle, he might be blinded, so maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t.

The sudden lightness of the dagger embedded in his hands alerted Madara that the invader had let go of the knife. Swiftly, he jerked the blade out of the meat of his hand, ignoring the blood that gushed from the lacerations. He threw it away sideways, too far for him to go after it without turning his back to Madara—and _that_ would be a fatal mistake. A fraction of a second later, a heeled boot connected with the side of his face. He managed to stay on his feet, made a grab for the foot and missed.

Whoever it was was well trained, he realized. The attacker dropped to the ground and made a sweep for Madara’s feet, intending to knock him over. He barely managed to avoid being swept, but by then his eyes were well adjusted, and it was time to be the aggressor instead of the victim.

Unless he set his whole house on fire, using fire was a mistake; it would only serve to blind them both. For this, he would need the Sharingan. One good trip to the realm of insanity within his mind should be all he needed. He found the inner calm of an intense fight and advanced, throwing punches and kicks that the other expertly blocked, though he kept pressing backward. For several moments they exchanged blows, parrying and evading, neither taking any damage whatsoever. Then, the black clad ninja backflipped twice, and there was the double shriek of two sprays of shuriken flying through the air. Madara, thinking quickly, dropped into a squat on his heels, muscles coiling, then shot forward. The assassin cartwheeled sideways, toward the blade that had been thrown.

Madara cursed, threw shuriken of his own. The attacker tried to dodge, but as Madara listened, around half of the shuriken embedded themselves into the wood of the wall, and the other half hit something…else. The other ninja gasped in pain and pitched forward, landing face first on the floor of his house.

He smirked. Keeping a close eye on the one who had tried—inexplicably—to kill him, he slowly approached the body. Just as he was near enough to be able to pull the mask off, he heard the whisper of another blade, and then someone else grabbed him by the hand. There was a hot spike of something traveling up his arms, and then a sudden paralysis gripped his body. He panicked, unable to move, thinking that he was about to be stabbed and there wasn’t fuck-all he could do about it.

Instead, the world tilted, distorting, the walls turning to a bright shade of deep purple and sliding away like a receding tide until it was only himself in a suspended other dimension. The air was thick, unbreathable, creating the sense of panic that he was slowly suffocating, even if he wasn’t dying. There was the thick, cloying fragrance of rotting flowers, as if he were standing in a chamber of poison and malignance.

 _Genjutsu,_ he realized. Then, there was a deafening howl, like a woman screaming and a lion roaring at the same time, blaring up from below his feet. With it came a hot, malnourishing wind, blasting from below like the devil’s breath. His stomach dropped away, and he felt as if he was falling into an endless void, plummeting toward some voracious nightmare beast, waiting to be eaten. Before he would have ever hit the bottom, a single scarlet ribbon slithered toward him, anchored in shadow. It stabbed into his skin, through him, lancing his whole body throughout with pain like a poison senbon, meant to cause pain instead of murder. He felt hooks explode from the tip as soon as it had penetrated skin. His real body might have passed out from the sudden intense burst of pain, but here in the illusion, the pain only increased without relief.

Another ribbon snaked out as the first. Then another, and another, until his entire body was pincushioned with scarlet ribbons, pulling him in a thousand directions at once, his body a screaming miasma of agony while unseen teeth gnashed from below. It was either hang from red ribbons, paralyzed and in cold, searing pain, or else fall into the unseen maw below and meet certain death.

It would have been devastatingly effective… if the would-be murderer hadn’t tried to ensnare the head of the Uchiha clan. Genjutsu was Madara’s playground. His life was one big illusion, and his technique was more hellish than anything this man could conjure. Dimly, he had awareness of his real body, knew he was standing face to face to whomever had tried to kill him while said invader visited his genjutsu upon Madara.

With one violent snap, he jerked himself free from his nightmare realm, ignited the Mangekyou, and ensared his attacker right back. His eyes went wide with shock, and he sagged, going slack from head to toe. Madara gripped him by the shoulders, guided him to the ground, his expression grim. For a minute, he only let the Tsukuyomi do what it was created to do: cause nightmares far more heinous than the one he had just escaped.

He breathed deeply, troubled by what had transpired. Someone had tried to kill him. It insulted him thoroughly, for he had been under the impression that he had done nothing but good for this village since he stepped foot within it. Who would want to kill him, and why? He stared deep into the terrified eyes of his victim. “Who are you, and why are you here?” he muttered, reaching for the mask.

Without warning, the corporeal form of his assailant blurred and disappeared, gone, broken from the illusion and free from his grasp. _Hiraishin_ , he realized with shock, recognizing the technique, for he had fought against it often enough.  Though it was possible that someone else had mastered that technique, Madara knew only one person who had learned it so far.

 _“Tobirama,”_ he hissed as the Shadow Clone he’d killed on his living room floor disappeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? :-D


	31. Division

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you will be mad at me. Hang in there. Everything will be made clear in time.

* * *

“Tobirama-dono,” she called as she caught up with him.

He stopped walking, waiting for her. “Uzumaki-san,” he returned, sounding tired. “It’s good to see you.” He stabbed hands into his pockets, his lips twitching with the barest semblance of a smile.

She still had gotten no closer to deciphering Touka’s hidden meanings. Nonetheless, she figured Touka had the situation handled, and there were other things that she had been meaning to attend to. For starters, it had been far too long since she had talked to Tobirama. That time when he smiled at her before she had whisked away his brother had been the last. Since it had been so long, though, the differences in his demeanor were pronounced. She laid a hand against his forehead, heedless of personal boundaries. “Are you well?” she asked calmly.

He grasped her hand and tugged it away gently, frowning. “I’m fine.”

Mito was miffed by his tone. They had always been playful before, joking with one another. Tobirama had been her first friend, the one she could be herself with, one of only a handful of people that she had even bothered to learn his name. “Something is troubling you, senpai,” she observed.

He carefully schooled his features, stashing his feelings away. From her. “It’s nothing that you need be bothered by.”

“Tobirama,” she warned, placing her hands on her hips in a brook-no-nonsense stance. “We’ve always been good friends. When I married your brother you warned me that there would be sensitive information, and that my role in this family was going to be vital. If it involves my husband—or you, or Touka, or anyone in this village—I have to know.”

He smirked, only slightly more amused than he was a moment before.

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“’Anyone in this village,’” he repeated, his voice thick with affection. “You really have become the Lady of the Senju.”

She relaxed, a little. She had, hadn’t she? “Tobirama,” she repeated with a teasing smile. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Or I _will_ find out some other way.”

He cringed. “You need to stop spending so much time with Touka-kun,” he grumbled unhappily.

Mito suppressed the grin she wanted. Comparing her to Touka was about the best compliment she could have asked for. Instead she held her ground, made her expression even more serious, and waited.

He sighed heavily. “I’m too tired to argue with you. Fine. But don’t get mad at _me_ if you don’t like what I have to say.”

Mito blinked. It must have involved Hashirama, if Tobirama was worried that she would be upset. “Is that why you’re having trouble telling me? Are you concerned that, since I married your brother, you and I can’t talk anymore?” Tobirama gave her a look that declared that yes, that was exactly the case. “It’s amusing that you think I must tell him everything, or that I share his opinions on all things,” she said with a laugh. “What kind of kunoichi doesn’t have secrets?”

He frowned. Then, massaged his forehead with exasperation and said under his breath, “Way too much time with Touka-kun.” Mito only smirked in what she hoped was Touka fashion. It must have succeeded, because Tobirama winced again the moment he saw it. “The feudal lord and his advisors arrived a day early,” he confessed miserably.

Mito understood entirely. Receiving honored guests took a certain amount of careful preparation. They would need to reserve space to house them while they were in town, make arrangements to have them entertained and fed, and conduct appropriate business while they were available, all while trying not to waste their time. If there was anything Mito knew about special guests, it was that they were all self-important and wealthy, and that meant that they thought their time was worth more than everyone else’s. “Ah, I see,” Mito responded sympathetically.

“Not quite,” Tobirama muttered. “Now I have to track down Uchiha Madara and my brother and the rest of our _special_ council.” He spat the word.

“What’s the big occasion, if I may ask?” Mito inquired, trying not to seem too excited herself. Whatever was happening was a pretty big event in the history of their village, if the feudal lord was involved.

“We’re being officially recognized as the Village Hidden in the Leaves,” he replied easily enough. “And a leader will be chosen to represent the village in matters of state, called the Hokage.”

 _Hashirama!_ “Oh!” she exclaimed, thrilled. “That’s actually _good_ news!” She hugged him, unable to contain her own excitement. Very soon, her husband would be introduced as something akin to a king of ninja. He’d probably have to go and meet with the leaders of other lands, and then there would be new trade routes, new clans coming to their village… and so much that they could not yet even begin to imagine. This was monumental in their history, the true start to a revolutionized world, and she was beside herself with happiness; for her, for them, for Hashirama...

Tobirama seemed singularly unmoved. “It’s not that simple, Uzumaki-san. I know what you’re thinking… Hashirama-nii-san is the obvious choice. Unfortunately," he added, sickly sweet, "your honored husband has also nominated Uchiha Madara.”

…and the ground fell out from beneath her feet. “What?” she breathed, shocked. How could this be? Hashirama had to know he was the better choice. What was he thinking? “But… but…” She didn’t have the words. They were all jumbled up in her brain, confused.

“Now you understand,” he stated without joy. “Nonetheless, we’re trying to be fair, so everyone has to have an even chance. I’d have half a mind to put in myself, but I don’t want to detract any votes away from Hashirama. We are so similar in many ways. We’re going to have a hard enough time keeping Madara from wearing the hat anyhow. Lately he’s been a model citizen. It’s annoying, really,” he finished with a sigh. “Anyway, Uzumaki-san, I really should go. It’s going to be hard enough getting everyone together in time for the meeting in an hour. None of them know the feudal lord is here, Hyuuga-sama lives on the other end of the village, and there’s no telling where Sarutobi-sama is at this time of day. Even with the Hiraishin, I’ll be a few minutes late myself. At least my brother is already there,” he continued. “He has the useful habit of being early for things. That’s good. It gives him a chance to open conversations with the feudal lord and warm them to his bid.”

Mito was still reeling, and in all honesty, that surprised her. She should be happy for either of them, really. She loved them both, and both men deserved the title.

Didn’t they?

Except that she couldn’t shake the feeling that Uchiha Madara simply _should not_ be Hokage. Hashirama had worked harder for it, for longer. He’d earned it. Had practically been living it daily already. And Madara…

…she loved him, didn’t she?

 _Don’t I?_ Except that when she imagined him walking up and down the streets of the village, kissing babies and shaking the hands of his peers, the image simply did not fit.

And when she imagined herself standing next to him, smiling, Momoka between them… that didn’t fit either.

Hashirama was _meant_ to be Hokage. He’d been _born_ to be Hokage. He’d been a crownless king since before they had met formally.

 _I have to do something,_ she thought. Quickly, she scanned her talents and tools, trying to determine what she could do to stop this travesty from occurring. She certainly couldn’t talk Madara out of it; he would demand _her_ as a price for his abstinence. She probably couldn’t talk Hashirama out of it either, no matter how much faith Touka had placed in her powers of sexual persuasion. He could be extraordinarily stubborn on some matters, and if he was still insisting that Madara be Hokage after their conversation, he must have had a reason for it that he believed was terribly clever. Furthermore, she simply did not have the time to try talking to either of them about the matter. One hour was all she had.

What had Touka said? _Assassination, seduction, deception, sleight of hand, treachery._ These were the weapons of the kunoichi. _Think fast, Mito, think fast!_

She panicked as Tobirama turned to go. “Wait!” she yelped, ashamed at the urgency in her voice. “I know where Madara is,” she lied. “I’ll tell him.”

Tobirama’s relief was almost palpable. “Would you, please? That man makes my skin crawl. It’s not exactly a secret we dislike each other.”

Her curiosity got the best of her. “…Why?”

Tobirama blinked. “All this time and you never figured it out, huh?” She shook her head, irritated that whatever 'it' was, 'it' was apparently common knowledge, and she knew none of it. “Remember a while back when you asked me why Hashirama was upset with me?” She nodded. “We’d been trying to get the Uchiha to surrender peaceably for years, ever since nii-san became the leader of our clan. My methods are much more… drastic. Hashirama and I agreed that if his way wasn’t going to work that we could try mine.”

“Which was?”

His eyes were cold and merciless as he answered, “I killed his little brother. His _last_ brother.”

* * *

 

It took her more than fifteen minutes to determine the whereabouts of Madara’s house. It seemed most people in the village had a good inclination of which direction he lived, but not where, exactly. It wasn’t until she had apparently stepped into firmly Uchiha territory that everyone suddenly knew exactly where he lived. As the porch came into view though, Mito got the impression that he might not be home. The windows were dark.

Oddly, she was disappointed. She’d spent the last twenty minutes devising what she should say that would keep him from showing up to that meeting, and had committed to enact it. If he was already out and about, headed toward the meeting place… if he found out the feudal lord was here, all would be lost.

Hesitantly, she knocked to make sure, suddenly self-conscious. Being accosted in storerooms and alleys was one thing. This was Madara’s _home_ , his private dwelling. Likely no one had ever been in it except for him, and if he chose to keep her, no one would even think to look for her here. It was more than a little daunting. Several minutes passed, and no one came to the door. Not home after all. She turned, took one step off the porch.

“Mito?”

The word was so beautifully spoken in her ears that once again, she was a smitten, foolish girl. In her name were all of his hopes, his dreams, his prayers answered. He was so happy to see her that she wanted to weep for him. He had thought she was dead, had suffered the loss of his dearest and last surviving brother, been torn apart from the inside out and left with nothing to live for. She turned and saw him. _Really_ saw him, and the phrase that etched itself on her heart was _I should not have come here._

For his hair was a tangled, wild mess and there were dark, deep trenches beneath his eyes. He looked thinner than when she had seen him last, and the loss of mass did not suit his frame. It was as if his last precious, carefully guarded candle had gone out. She felt the vulnerability rolling off of him like a drug, and she lapped it up like an addict. Before she knew what she was doing, she hurtled into his chest and wrapped her arms around him, holding tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. _For what?_  her mind struggled to provide. For getting pregnant? For not waiting? That he had ever thought her dead? That he had lost his brother? That he’d been alone? “For _everything_ ,” she barely managed.

He lifted her and carried her inside. “People can’t see you on my porch,” he explained uncomfortably. “There will be too many questions, and I won’t do that to you.” He walked into the center of the house, then seemed to have reached an indecision about where to put her. He merely froze in the center of his house, eyes darting from one place to the next.

Mito followed his eyes, but she was not drawn to doors or places that you would set a person. Instead, she saw the overturned furniture, and the dozens of shuriken embedded in the walls. He followed her gaze. “Someone tried to kill me,” he offered as an explanation.

He had said it so casually, as if it weren’t even a big deal. If he hadn’t been so offhand about it, Mito might have thought he was joking, but he seemed dead serious. “Who?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “Tobirama, most likely. Whoever it was had his Hiraishin.”

Mito sucked in a breath. For some reason, that made her feel betrayed. The Village Hidden in the Leaves was supposed to be a safe place. _An even chance_ , he’d said. Was that why he had been so unhappy earlier? Because his assassination attempt had failed?

Mito’s mood darkened further. Tobirama had not been the same person she had known as a part of the Senju army. It upset her on a deeply personal level that he might have tried something like this.

Madara seemed to have given up deciding where to put her, and he merely set her down gently upon her toes right there. He made no move to touch her as he had before. He simply stared, as he had those years ago, peeling her apart layer by layer, exposing her innermost thoughts and feelings for him to read as if she were an open book. Without a word or a caress, he tore away all of her defenses. Mito the kunoichi, gone. Mito, the married woman, fled. Her superior breeding, the confidence she had built as a wall to keep people out, the position she used to try to get her way… all of it dissolved, leaving her feeling naked in a way she had never before experienced. “You’re staring,” she observed, her mouth going suddenly dry.

The smirk was slow, deliberate… knowing. “I can’t help it. You’re still the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.” 

Somewhere beyond these walls were people who had somehow tricked her. Hashirama, using her child to further his name and his clan. Tobirama, who’d hidden his merciless nature from her, kept secrets and attempted murder in an era of peace. And Touka, Touka who had promised she would fix everything and done nothing at all, all the while clearly knowing something she did not that she refused to share. All of them kept her at arm’s length, like a pet who didn't quite belong, telling her only what they wished and when they wished it, teasing her for not knowing enough and hinting that she should by now…!

She was done with it. Madara was the only one who had ever been completely honest* with her. His feelings were true. He had loved her truly, and had never stopped.

She had come here, her only intention to keep Madara from the feudal lord’s meeting, to keep him from becoming Hokage. She had honestly intended to do nothing else, to somehow trick him into staying away from the very important meeting.

She succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it's not immediately obvious to some of you, I'll explain in the next chapter instead of here.
> 
> *Yes, she conveniently forgets that he lied to her. This isn't a typo on my part.


	32. Allegiance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Good news. That new story I was working on is done (approx. 55K words). It's running through some beta readers and experiencing some edits. 
> 
> I decided it is going to be posted on this account, just as an FYI. It doesn't have a title yet. More information later. :)

* * *

He held her as if she were the most precious thing in his entire universe, and to him, it was probably true.

Mito, for her part, felt free, suddenly and violently thrown from every obligation she had signed onto. Every moment she spent in that bed with him, every good thought she had had for the Senju was replaced with partially falsified philosophies at odds with the ones she had led herself to believe. Hashirama was no longer her white knight; he was a usurper, who had stolen her from her one true love, stolen her child to repaint as his own, and used her to help set up the village. If he knew of her mother’s power she had within her, he might use that, too. She vowed he would never have that.

She had never wanted to be wealthy, nor hold political and social status. She had only wanted to be herself, to dabble in chakra when she had the passing fancy, to travel the world helping others. She had desired only to be free, and freedom she had found with this man only. “I love you,” she whispered, frightened to say it aloud. It was a dangerous thing she had done, coming here, growing more dangerous every moment.

He took a deep breath, and a happy sigh came out. But for him, the words weren’t going to be enough. He rolled over, leaned one arm over her frame and gazed deep into her eyes. She saw the depth of his love in them, a force so strong that it scared her. In her eyes, she would never be worthy of that level of admiration. “I could live a hundred lifetimes, die a hundred deaths, Mito, and I would never love anyone as I have loved you. I will forgive every trespass, every hurt. No matter what happens, you will be the only one that I will ever love, and I will love you with everything that I am. Whatever you want, you shall have. This is true love, and nothing will ever come between us, not even death.” He brushed one knuckle along her cheekbone, then kissed her tenderly, his lips soft and sweet and perfect against hers. “I knew you would come, someday.” He kissed a trail down her neck, along her collarbone. “Stay.” He kissed lower, and she shut her eyes. “With me.”

“Not yet,” she said quietly. He stopped, suspended above her, frozen in time. “Let’s run away,” she offered instead. “Leave this place, and let them do with it what they will.” She felt cursed; when she was near him, she felt as if the world was in perfect harmony, that pain could not touch her, and that everything would work out in the end. Every moment she spent away from him was a struggle. When she was around anyone else, she was constantly forced to find the hidden meanings, wear a mask of perfect composure, and be what was expected of her. When she was with Hashirama, she knew that being with Madara was wrong. When she was with Madara, she resented Hashirama. Running away was the only answer that made sense right now. 

 _Good things happen to us Uzumaki when we run away from home,_ she thought, remembering her mother. 

He tilted his face up to stare at her from above her navel, a happy grin splitting his face in two. “You mean it?”

She nodded, smiling, feeling the exultant thrill of an adventure. “I’ve got a new power I want to try out, anyway.” He quirked an eyebrow, curious. “Apparently I’m a fuinjutsu master now.” She lowered her voice and crinkled her nose. “My mother says the bijuu are real, and that I can capture them.”

He blinked, his dark eyes unreadable. “The bijuu? The mythical tailed beasts?”

She nodded, resolute. “Oh yes. You and I can go hunt them down, and catch all nine and start our own village. And we can give them to our children to protect the village, and the world. We can police the world over. With all nine of them, no one would dare fight any more. I bet that my method works way better than simply organizing the Shinobi into villages,” she added with a sly smile.

“I bet you’re right,” he agreed, back to his journey of kisses. “You’re so clever.” She gasped when he kissed her in a place she had never been kissed before, her body convulsing into a perfect arc. He abandoned his attention and returned to his original position, smirking because he knew he’d left her wanting.

She bit her lip to contain the groan of disappointment. His smirk only broadened, a devilish rictus of secrets until she had to ask. “What’s so funny?”

He peeked out of the corner of one eye. “You want nine children?”

* * *

 

Her blush deepened, her eyes lowering shyly. She must not have realized what she had said, but her secretive smile was answer enough. Well. He could help her with that.

Madara was celebrating. At long last, his patience had prevailed. Mito was naked and in his bed, and from her own lips had declared her love and desire to leave the village with him. He praised the gods above for the challenges that they had visited upon him, and for giving him the determination to see it through. It had only been an added bonus that Mito had been further blessed with miraculous sealing abilities. Together, they would rule this world as benevolent gods, halting the wars entirely and ushering in a new era.

He couldn’t tell her the entirety of his plans, though, not yet. Mito was strong and brilliant, but she still had a soft heart. He would spare her the brutality of what needed to be done. Certain sacrifices needed to be made if one wished to remake the world. Hadn’t he and Hashirama proven that once already? And so, he would take care of the ugly part, and when everything was prepared and primed, he would return for her.

“Mito, there’s something I must do,” he told her later. “But I’ll come back for you. I promise.” He could see by the way that she hesitated that his promise scared her, and he could hardly blame her for it. “I know I let you down once before,” he told her with regret, kissing the backs of her hands. “I’ll show you this time. I know your name. I know where you are now. I will definitely find you. If I have to travel through hell to see your face again, I’ll do it. Believe in me.”

With her words in his heart, Madara struck out on his own. He suffered a minor, irritating setback when every Uchiha he talked to expressed their desire to stay behind in Konoha. Apparently Uchiha Kaito and his wife Kasumi had been more vocal than he had thought in their support of the Senju. To a man, every one of the traitorous lot was ready to throw in with Hashirama. It burned him, a little, as the assassination attempt had. He had thought that he had done well for them, at least as good as Hashirama. No matter, he told himself. There were plenty of clans across the world that would probably jump at the chance to ally with the chief of the Uchiha clan. He and Mito could start fresh with new clans, new advisors, and new friends. In fact, it was an added bonus that none of them would know of their pasts, and would only be able to judge the Lord and Lady of the Uchiha clan based on merit alone.

He met Hashirama at the Uchiha’s sacred stone tablet for their last talk as allies. He now knew precisely what was said upon it. It hadn’t made sense before, for he had incorrectly presumed that the cooperative powers written upon it were referring to himself and Hashirama. He should have known better; he and Hashirama had always gotten along just as often as they clashed. They would never be a compatible team. Happiness was not to be found in Konoha.

He should have guessed that the tablet was referring to the cooperative powers of man and woman. That made much more sense. He felt complete when he was with Mito, like everything that he had not been able to obtain in his lifetime was now easily within his reach.

And so, he met his old friend, ready for a fresh start. There were far too many problems hanging between them already, and Madara did not want to completely reveal his hand too soon. After all, Mito would still be here, and he did not wish to cause her any undue strife. Many other issues still existed, though. Like the fact that Tobirama had tried to have him killed. Or that Hashirama now wore a fancy hat that made him leader of the Village Hidden in the Leaves. With Tobirama controlling his every decision, there was no place for Madara here now, and the Uchiha that he had brought with him were too comfortable upon their golden leashes to ever consider following him anywhere. It was easy enough to provide a reason for him to leave.

Despite that, saying goodbye to Hashirama was bittersweet. In the process of revolutionizing the world, Hashirama would be destroyed. The sacrifice would be worth it, though, for world peace. Even Hashirama would have agreed with that. He also couldn’t bring himself to tell him that Mito would betray him, and in fact already had. No, if there was anything that Madara had learned of his friend over the years, it was that Hashirama would always win if given any advantage. This time, Madara was going to keep the details of his plan to himself. By the time he showed his cards, it would be far, far too late for Hashirama.

_And then, my queen… then we will truly live._

* * *

 

Touka was waiting for her when she arrived home. She felt funny, as if she might be an entirely different person, filled up to the eyeballs with secrets and intrigue. Was this what being a kunoichi felt like? Wonderful and terrible both, like she was both betraying and protecting, living and dying together? “Ah,” Touka said simply, as if she saw something Mito didn’t. Like she usually did.

“Is aught amiss?” she asked, feeling as if the word ‘traitor’ were branded all over her face, though she tried hard to hide it. It was exciting, actually. Though she felt wicked, at the very same time she felt powerful, liberated. For the first time, she did feel as if she were controlling the world, as if it moved according to the crook of her finger. She had singlehandedly changed the fate of a nation, all but handed over control of the Leaf Village to Hashirama. When he came home today, he would be Hokage, she reminded herself.

“You wear your crown well, Mito-kun,” Touka declared, smiling. “I’ve tutored an apt pupil, it seems.”

 _Did she already know?_   “Why do you say this?”

“Uchiha Madara wasn’t at the meeting today,” Touka proudly proclaimed. “Neither was Uzumaki Mito. I’m not sure how you pulled it off,” she continued, though from her squinting, accusatory eyes, Mito got the sense that she was absolutely certain. “But we are grateful to you for your service.” With that, Touka bowed respectfully, the first time Mito could recall her ever doing so to anyone.

“We?”

“Tobi-dobe and I,” she elaborated. “We were concerned that Madara might have actually had a chance. But since he was too self important to show up at the feudal lord’s pleasure, it was determined that he could not handle the responsibilities of leading a village.”

Hearing the disrespect chafed at Mito. “Is that why Tobirama tried to have him killed?” she asked carefully, her voice serenely calm, the eye of a storm.

Touka raised an eyebrow. “Eh? Tobi-dobe? Assassinate Madara?” A laugh trickled out of her lips. Then it evolved into something more, a chuckle that bloomed into full throated laughter until Touka tipped over onto the porch, holding her sides, armor clanking as she flailed, too highly amused to contain herself. All the while, Mito waited patiently, unspeaking, waiting for her to control herself. Finally, she sat up, yanked off a gauntlet and wiped a tear from her eye. She sighed noisily, occasionally hiccupping with the last dregs of laughter. “His pride is _much_ too prickly for such things. Why would you think Tobirama tried to kill Madara? ” she asked more seriously, her smile slowly disappearing.

Mito crossed her arms. “He was unpleasant today, and he mentioned he did not wish for Madara to become Hokage. Also,” she added, “Madara said that his assassin used the Hiraishin.”

 _That_ startled her. Touka’s visible eye widened, her skin going pale. “The… the Hiraishin, you say?” Her voice shook, almost imperceptible. Mito nodded. She swore and stood hastily. “I have to leave,” she said abruptly, headed for the treeline.

“Leave?” she questioned, irritated. “And go where?”

Her answer was sharply spoken and cold, carrying the air of finality. “Out of Konoha.” _Forever._

Mito froze, head to toe tingling with alarm. “Touka-kun, what’s the matter? _Why_ do you have to leave?”

“Because he will _know_ , Mito-kun.”

“Madara?”

Touka shook her head and rounded on her, all of her hair standing on end and green eyes blazing with _fear_. “No, you pretty idiot,” she growled. “ _Tobirama_. Have you learned nothing at all?”

Mito was sublimely confused. It must have shown on her face, for Touka launched into a hasty explanation that left little room for breath. “Only Tobirama knows the Hiraishin. That’s what everyone believes. Only one other person in the entire world knows how to use Hiraishin, Mito-kun, and that’s _me_. If word gets out that someone tried to use the Hiraishin to kill Madara, everyone will blame Tobirama. Oh gods, what if he’s executed? Mito-kun, I’ve ruined him. I can’t stay. I’ll die of shame if I do.” She turned to leave again, loosing a string of curses so vile they would have made any soldier blush.

But Mito had learned something incredibly important in the last twenty seconds. “ _You_ tried to kill Madara?!?”

Touka threw her hands up in the air and turned back to her again. The look on her face was exasperated and long suffering. “You know, sometimes I can’t decide if you’re the best kunoichi I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, or a disgrace to the word.” Mito had the grace to be appalled. “ _Of course_ I tried to kill him. I said I’d take care of everything, didn’t I?”

“Why would I want you to do that?” she blurted.

“You _wouldn’t_ want me to do that, Mito-kun, which is _exactly_ why I had to. You don’t even realize the kind of danger you’ve put us in with your gallivanting, do you? Not only do you run the risk of undermining Hashirama’s credibility and Momoka-chan’s legitimacy, but you’ve put this whole village at risk. Not to mention you could be killed for your infractions—both of them, for you were unfaithful to both Madara and your husband both. Now, with your latest stunt, Madara likely believes he has won and now possesses the power and confidence to do anything. What do you think he will do with that?”

Mito’s fury rose to a fever pitch. “Maybe he’ll use the power that he controls to rule, as he was always meant to.”

Touka gasped as if slapped. “ _Mito-kun!_ What are you saying?”

Mito bit her lips to keep them shut.

Touka crossed the yard in two great strides and invaded Mito’s personal space. _“Mito-kun.”_ She grasped Mito’s shoulders and shook her gently. “Look at me.” Mito did. “What did you tell him?”

As if waking from a dream, Mito felt his hold over her dissolving again. Touka, as ever, made sense. How many times had she told herself that Madara was dangerous, that she should not get too close? Finally, broken again for the last time, Mito wept and confessed everything, from the moment the door opened to his home to her plan that they run away. She left out the bijuu, though. The bijuu did not concern Senju Touka. “Touka-kun, I can’t resist him.” That was the simple truth of it. All of her wits flew right out the window around him.

“It’s the Sharingan,” Touka said with certainty. “He must be controlling you with it.”

She shook her head, knowing for a surety that that was not true. “No, Touka-kun. I don’t want to resist him. My spirit is weak.”

“You’re wrong, Mito-kun… your spirit is strong. Madara’s is just stronger. When he returns, you will just have to be even stronger yet. I will help you. Because, Mito-kun…” Mito turned tear stained eyes in her direction, waiting. “When he comes back, he will not be leaving without you, even if that means killing everything else in his way.”

Mito shook her head, denying it. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s _good_.”

Touka looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “Mito-kun… the Uchiha are not as merciful as the Senju. He cannot let anyone live that might oppose him. First and foremost, that means Hashi-sama and Tobi-dobe. They will be the first to die.”

Mito’s ire rose again. “You speak as if you know him,” she said imperiously. “You do not. No one knows the contents of his heart and soul as I do.”

Touka crossed her arms. They stared at each other, kunoichi versus kunoichi. One spoke with the certainty of the Senju, the other with the certainty of the Uchiha. It was only because they were friends and women that they did not engage in blows. In the end, Touka inclined her head stiffly in deference, her green eyes flickering with uncertainty. Mito was her superior, and to Touka, that was all that mattered. “Mito-kun,” she said finally, her last bid. “Just be ready to choose which of them lives, and which of them dies. I hope that I am wrong. I have often wished to be wrong.” 

As she turned to go, Mito suddenly remembered. “Touka-kun… are you really leaving Konoha?”

Touka’s shoulders sagged, defeated and miserable. “No,” she said, though her voice was barely a whisper. “First I have to do something that scares me even more than that.” She turned to face Mito, her eye sad and pained. “I have to face Tobirama, and tell him what I’ve done.” She smiled, fondly but without humor. “If I’m dead tomorrow, don’t blame him, okay?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elainegimble: "I need Madara and Mito to have one more sweet romantic lovemaking session together!"
> 
> Amy: "but not before a little goodbye love-making session since, oh well, the Uchiha is gorgeous. I feel so evil right now."
> 
> NAILED IT. 
> 
> Let me feel your rage. By show of hands, who's pissed off right now?
> 
> Here, allow me to explain my feelings, and why I wrote it this way. I actually wavered back and forth about writing it out this way. There's a really good plot reason that will become clear later. 
> 
> Madara is bad for Mito, on an emotional level. He DOES love her, insofar as he knows how, but his overwhelming power and presence boxes her up. She completely shuts down, all brainwaves demolished in favor of his will. She'll do whatever he asks of her if she lets him, and she's been fighting a losing battle since the moment they ran into each other. Madara knew it and pursued, knowing she'd eventually crack. Mito fought, had done everything correctly, but the heart wants what the heart wants.
> 
> Add that to the stress of trying to be who she needs to be and a bombshell of a secret that has personal meaning to her--that her friend and bro-in-law had killed her lover's dearest and last remaining family and seemingly held no remorse--and she's suddenly smacked with pity and empathy. Add that to Madara looking as if he's given up, and she doesn't want him to be miserable, even if she knows it's wrong.
> 
> Now she feels alone, and he's definitely alone, and at least with him she doesn't have to think. She breaks. She wants him, and he needs her, and in a snap decision that was all that mattered. 
> 
> She's only human, and these two in a confined and personal space with an hour to kill was a toxic combination from its outset.


	33. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments have slowed down. I'm going to assume it's because you're angry with me. I can't say that I blame you... I did rather do that on purpose. 
> 
> So. Tobirama is back. ;-)

* * *

Finding them a place to go was a simple decision, in the end. Mito had never been to his homeland, the stony plains and rolling hills of the Uchiha domain. It wasn’t as deeply wooded as Konoha and the Senju strongholds, but it experienced warm zephyrs and temperate seasons, and the views at its highest point were worth their distance in poetry.

That, and Madara was yearning to return home. He had suffered many bad memories at the hands of the Senju there, for it was there that all of his brothers had met their end, as had his mother. He smiled sadly, wondering what Izuna and Uchiha Tomoko would have thought of the red haired medic who had saved his life. Izuna probably would have cracked a joke at his expense. He didn’t remember much of his mother, but he liked to think that she would be even more protective of Mito than Madara himself. She was probably the type to think she knew Mito better than he did, fawning and fussing and dishing out compliments about her hair and her beauty.

He didn’t have Hashirama’s unusual talent for building things, but his little village had plenty of abandoned homes that could be repurposed. Effort and sweat could take care of the rest. The same river that eked through Konoha ran near there, and the fields nearby were fertile; some of his clan had grown stuff there, though he hadn’t really paid a whole lot of attention as to what. They could live here.

A deep pit formed in his stomach, though, as he strode up to the door of his childhood home. It was here that he had brought Izuna as he was dying. Here, that his brother had saved him from blindness, because _he_ could not save Izuna from death, even though he had promised. If Madara had had the courage to face his father then—if he’d have spirited Mito away with him then—she could have been here. Izuna might have lived. How merry life would have been, to have them both back in his life. 

...Not to be.

 _I’m sorry, Izuna. I listened when I shouldn’t have and didn’t listen when I should have, especially to you._ Izuna didn’t answer, but the quiet didn’t hurt quite as badly as he had anticipated. He found peace in this house. He could _almost_ believe that his little brother was only away for the day. Could _almost_ hear him laughing. 

 _I’m naming my first son Izuna,_ he decided then, knowing Mito would be fine with that.

He had made so many mistakes in his lifetime, but they had all stemmed from his mistreatment of her. He would not make any of these same errors ever again. He would take her, marry her, and serve her for the rest of his days. She would fill this house with laughter and children. He turned away from the door, seeing the potential for life and laughter in the dead husks of buildings that surrounded this one. There, people would greet them and smile, and bow. His eyes drifted to the rising hills that surrounded this shallow bowl. They could set up a wall with guard towers to protect their people. The threat of the Senju would necessarily have to be eliminated, but that wasn’t going to prevent upstart fools from attempting to overthrow his reign.

He spent the week preparing. When he returned to Konoha, the actions would be swift, and then they would need to leave immediately. He wouldn’t want to clean up, then. He’d want to lay her down right there on the tatami mat and celebrate his victory with his blood singing in his ears. And so, he blew all the dust out of those places and threw open all the windows to let them air out. He made sure all of their dishes were organized and cleaned and beat all of the dust and leaves out of the linens. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for now. He’d never been particularly fond of cleaning, and wasn’t actually sure what else to do.

All that was left was to go catch himself a bijuu.

* * *

 

“Rise and shine, kohai.”

Mito’s eyelids flew open. It was incredibly unusual to have Tobirama standing in their bedchamber after all. His voice was not at all the one she appreciated emitting from his throat either. It was icy, so frigid that she shivered just to hear and cringed within herself. Hashirama’s face was turned her way, though, his eyes drifted up to regard the expression of his brother. Mito watched Hashirama’s face, trying to gain any inclination of what was going on through his reaction instead of facing his younger brother herself.

“Nii-san…” Hashirama began carefully, ready to ask what was going on.

“UP!” he snapped, every scintilla of his presence poured into that one word. Hearing it brought back instincts from the warring era. She found herself snapping to attention, but belatedly realized that she wasn’t wearing anything. She glanced sidelong at her brother-in-law and flinched when she saw his expression. Tobirama was _pissed_ , and her modesty was not even on his radar right now.

“Turn around at least,” Hashirama ordered, annoyed.

Tobirama hesitated, as if afraid she might run away when his back was returned. There was the _tap, tap_ of his finger against his vambrace as he thought about it, the corner of his lips twitching with displeasure. Finally, with a steady breath that sounded like it had taken a lot of effort, he strode to their bedroom door and snapped, “Two minutes. Kitchen table.”

“What’s going on, Tobirama?” Hashirama asked worriedly, throwing aside the sheet.

“Family meeting,” he snarked through clenched teeth.

Mito didn’t like the sound of that at all. She and her husband exchanged looks as Tobirama left the room, leaving the door wide open. “He better have a good reason for this,” Hashirama said to her quietly, snatching up his robe. Mito nodded, twisting her hair into a messy knot and clipping it into place with an expertly placed comb. She pulled on a robe, choosing not to bother with anything more elaborate. Hashirama did the same, and they met the younger Senju brother in the kitchen, hand in hand.

Mito frowned when she saw Touka sitting at the table, her fingers pressed into the wood and her eyes trained upon them. “Touka-san?” Hashirama inquired, looking confused. Mito realized that she had never seen the two interact, but it was informative that she made no move to correct the way he treated her name. Her green eyes lifted from beneath her brow just long enough to make contact with Hashirama, and then she returned to studying her fingers.

Mito really didn’t like the look of that. Touka was usually brimming with things to say, revolving through a favored set of moods rapidly. To see her silent and cowed was just… weird. Mito and Hashirama each took one of the three remaining chairs at the table. Tobirama made no move to sit. Mito didn’t like _that,_ either. He stood instead, crossing his arms and glaring daggers at everyone seated around the table. “Does someone care to inform me exactly what has been going on here?” He snipped out, his red eyes falling on each of the three of them in turn.

“I don’t like your tone,” Hashirama started, taking the lead.

“I don’t like your friend, so I guess we’re even,” Tobirama replied venomously. “Uzumaki-san?” he beseeched, turning the full weight of his gaze onto her, the red irises narrowing slightly.

She guessed what this was about, but that didn’t mean she wanted to talk about it. “Touka-kun?” she begged instead, hoping the other woman would fill them in on just how much Tobirama knew. It was obvious from her demeanor and his that she had talked to him. Judging from the completely dispirited look upon her face, Mito figured it must have been pretty bad.

Hashirama looked between the two women, as if trying to figure out what was going on there. He hadn’t had any inkling that there was much more to their relationship than familial acquaintance. Mito felt small. She didn’t want to spill everything to all of them at once. Part of playing the ninja game was carefully selecting who got to know what. This made her ploy extremely vulnerable. She peeked at her husband; he watched her patiently, seemingly unperturbed by the rude awakening and waiting to know why he had been woken up. “This is about Uchiha Madara,” Mito fed him.

His mouth fell open slightly and he nodded in understanding. “I see.” He turned his eyes back upon Tobirama, his focus sharpening, ready to do battle. “What about him?”

“Ask her,” Tobirama dared, gesturing to Mito.

“I’m asking you,” Hashirama rejected harshly.

If Tobirama was taken aback, he gave no outward sign. “ _Touka-kun_ tried to kill him recently.” His hand left the crook of his elbow to implicate the culprit, then just as quickly returned to its original position.

Hashirama’s eyes widened in shock, darting over to the armored woman at the table who suddenly seemed to want to be absorbed into her chair. She bit her lower lip and looked away. “Why?” 

Touka took several deep breaths, her mouth opening to speak. The words got stuck in her throat though. “I… I’m—“

Watching Touka struggle to take responsibility for trying to help her didn’t sit right. Touka had only been trying to do what was best for Konoha, and thus far she had done a better job of it than Mito had herself. Bravery welled up within her, the insistent sensation that she should do something about it. Touka had been a challenging friend, but she had been a true friend to Mito. “I asked her to,” Mito piped up. Three sets of eyes turned her direction. The weight of all those steely Senju gazes made Mito intensely uncomfortable, but she felt the rightness of it and would not be swayed. She sat up straighter in her chair, meeting them stare for stare. “I did it,” she repeated, her posture relaxed and stable. “And I did that because… Madara found out that Momoka-chan is his daughter.”

 _“WHAT?!”_ Tobirama yelped, his deep voice booming loudly.

Mito had forgotten that he was the only one who hadn’t known until that moment. _Sorry, Tobirama-dono,_ she thought. Mito nodded. “I lied to you, Tobirama-dono. That time when I didn’t return to camp right away.” She flickered a glance at Hashirama, silently begging him not to reveal his part in this. “I found a man on the battlefield who was seriously wounded, so badly that I couldn’t tell which clan he was from. He looked familiar, kind of, so I thought perhaps he was a Senju and I removed him from the battlefield to care for him. He took some time to recover, and in that time, we fell in love. He is Momoka-chan’s father,” she said again, her gaze boring into Tobirama’s. “It’s true. That’s why I couldn’t find him among the Senju when I tried. He never found me on Uzushio, either, so when you sent Hashirama to me to ask for my hand in marriage, I had given up hope that I’d ever see him again.

“Ever since he learned I was here, he has been trying to destroy this marriage, and he knows that Momoka-chan is his child. He would stop at nothing to get what he wants, so he was going to tell everyone and disprove our daughter’s legitimacy. When I tried to talk him out of it, he forced himself upon me.” Hashirama looked as if he had swallowed something vile. Tobirama appeared angry. Touka’s features had abandoned the emotion of guilt and instead held something in them akin to awe.

She continued, riding the tides of her lies. “I was angry and scared, so I asked Touka for her help and begged her to have him killed. He has since left the village, I believe, and should no longer present a problem.” On that last sentence, she glared a silent warning to Touka, lest she get some wild idea to profess that she believed nothing of the sort.

Touka wisely said nothing. She owed Mito, and she knew it. All four Senju around the table went silent. It was Tobirama who broke the silence. “Well?” he accused, turning his stare on his older brother. “I did say that one day he would betray you, didn’t I?”

Hashirama remained in silent thought, for which Mito was grateful. He never made decisions on the fly. He would consider what he had heard, and he would speak and act only then. He stared at Touka and Mito in turn, trying to unravel the truth from the lies. He knew more of the true story than Tobirama did. He would know that Mito had not been completely honest. For starters, he had probably discerned that Mito had not been raped, for he knew well that she still harbored feelings for Madara. That was a conflict that they would need to face later. Whether or not he believed that she had been behind his assassination attempt was another matter. “I don’t believe that he would do this,” he said finally, siding with his friend.

 _Against_ her.

Mito schooled her face carefully, trying to hold back the hurt as he gazed back. Whether or not he was hurting for the revelation was uncertain, but he _was_ trying to tell her something.

Tobirama was having none of it. “We’ve had this same argument our whole lives,” he growled at Hashirama, shaking with rage. “When are you going to accept that he’s beyond redemption? He won’t ever stop until we are destroyed!”

“I won’t ever accept that,” Hashirama said quietly, but with no less wrath. “He is my friend.”

Tobirama glanced at Touka, her composure now restored to perfect blankness. “He will come back, nii-san,” Tobirama cautioned. “And when he does, he will come back for a fight. If you do not stand against him, we will all suffer for it. Because he _will_ kill you. He will kill me. He will destroy the village you worked so hard to build. He will _take_ Mito-- _and_ Momoka--and he will sleep peacefully that same evening.” There was a sinister silence, filled to bursting with a dangerous energy that cracked like thunder. A cold shockwave of air smacked Mito’s face, eliciting a gasp. She realized that Tobirama must have infused an immense amount of chakra, and he was glaring death at her husband, his eyes hard edged and deadly. “If you would let him destroy us, Hashirama, _I will kill you first_.”

Touka’s gaze whipped up toward Tobirama’s steely face, filled with concern. Hashirama didn’t even flinch. “I know,” he said calmly. “And I thank you for that. If it comes to that, I will fight. That is my duty as the Hokage.” There was a collective sigh of relief. Tobirama remained tense and unmoving; likely he didn’t believe Hashirama spoke the full truth. “What will you do, Mito?” her husband asked her then, his face carefully neutral.

She swallowed, feeling put on the spot. He was asking her a different question entirely: _which one of us do you love more?_ The answer really seemed to depend on the day, and she wasn’t ready to answer it. Tobirama answered for her, coolly logical and not untrue: “She can’t be trusted. Her loyalty is as reliable as the wind direction. When word arrives that Madara is near, we will have to imprison her until this is over.” His eyes slid over to her, unapologetic and harsh.

She felt betrayed, even if his mistrust was deserved. “I hardly think I need to be… locked up and chained…” she spluttered, her heart pounding. Tobirama had been her first and closest friend among the Senju. “I’m not a traitor.”

He said nothing. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden. She had never felt more alone among the Senju; tattled on by Touka, backed into a corner by Tobirama, and left undefended by her husband. A knot formed in her throat as the emotions swelled to bursting. Then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see the consoling face of Hashirama. He smiled, even if it was tinged with sadness, to reassure her. Then, he turned back to face his brother. “I will talk with Mito. That’s enough for tonight.”

Tobirama remained, stock still and imposing, every inch of him pissed off and defensive. The two brothers glared at each other, a silent battle for ultimate authority and dominance. Mito was reminded of two wolves, hackles raised, alpha and beta. Then, without even a glance in her direction, he barked, “Touka-kun!”

Her spine snapped straight. “Shishou!” she responded.

“We’re going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! NaNoWriMo starts tonight at midnight!!! ^_^ If you're writing for it, best of luck to you!!!!


	34. Traitor

* * *

They slept in silence, turned away from each other. The next night was much the same. On the third night, his hand sought her in his sleep again, like it sometimes did. By the fourth night, he was ready to hold her again, but he said nothing. He merely held her, tucked into the curve of his body, his nose buried in her hair. It was on that day that she first tried to talk to him. “Hashi?”

“Mito,” he responded back, his voice laden with accusation. _What can you possibly say that will make this okay?_ He seemed to ask.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, sensing that it was not a good time. It stung, but at least he was still _there_. That alone gave her hope.

In these days of marital distance, Mito thought about Konoha. And Hashirama, and Madara. In between the bouts of sleeping with a chasm between them, Mito took Momoka and walked up and down the streets of Konoha, as Hashirama had asked of her long ago, before she had been swept up in her own personal drama. Everywhere she went, Uchiha and Senju alike bowed low, murmuring pleasantries and honorifics and wishing her a lovely day. They served to remind her that more hung in the balance of her choices than whether or not she was happy. If Madara came roaring back to the Leaf Village bent on destroying it, that would ultimately be her fault. The thought alone troubled her. It was not in her nature to be responsible for the downfall of a nation.

She stopped by the hospital as well, and said hello to Kasumi, whom she had not seen in several weeks. “Uzumaki-sama!” Kasumi greeted happily. “It has been a long time! Konichiwa, Momoka-chan!” She greeted the girl, too.

“Konichiwa, Uchiha-san,” Momoka bowed politely.

“Kasumi-chan.” It pleased her to see Kasumi again. This Uchiha had played an integral role in acclimating her people within Konoha. She had been thrilled to share medical ninjutsu and other healthcare techniques with the Senju, and had been instrumental in starting up the village’s permanent hospital. Her husband Kaito had also been a large part of organizing the Uchiha into a community that interacted with the other people in the village. It was because of Kaito and Kasumi that the Uchiha had been comfortable enough here to reject Madara as their leader.

At first, Mito had been unhappy about that when she had heard. Now, though, watching Kasumi move about her small laboratory, asking about what Mito had been up to and how Hashirama was taking Madara’s defection while she busied herself with notes and flasks, Mito was reminded that she liked it here. They were doing good things in Konoha, together, with both Senju and Uchiha alike working in harmony. If she left with Madara, as she had told him that she would, they would need to start all over from scratch and abandon all of this. Kasumi would remain behind, as would all of the texts and notes that they had compiled together. She and Kasumi had had a specific and noble goal in mind during the hours that they had worked.

It seemed awfully childish and naïve of her to abandon that for the girlish concept of love. Though the timing was a little late, she remembered the lessons of her childhood, for she had purposely avoided romance novels for just this reason. Love was bound to cloud her judgment. As a wife, she was expected to be faithful to her husband and serve him in all ways. Love had nothing to do with it. She had fully expected to be married into a loveless union, and had once upon a time accepted that notion. She was fortunate instead to have been able to marry Hashirama, who even now was fighting to try to forgive her because he loved her so much.

And lastly, she had Momoka to think of. If she left Konoha, they would be on the run for a long time, and Momoka’s life would be thrown into upheaval. How was Mito supposed to explain to her daughter that Hashirama was not really her father, after she had grown to love him so much? What future would she have, with the shadow of her mother’s reputation hanging over her? Would she grow to resent Mito, over time, for taking her away from Hashirama?

“What’s the matter, oka-san?” Momoka asked, tugging on her hand.

With a start, she realized that she had stopped suddenly in the middle of the street, for she had realized that Konoha was more than just a village. Konoha was her _home_. She had a family here. Hashirama and Momoka, Touka and Tobirama, Kasumi and Kaito. Madara or no Madara… _she did not want to leave._ “Nothing, Momoka-chan. Let’s go home.” She smiled at her daughter.

He came back extra late that night. Mito heard his steps upon the porch through the open window before he came through the door. She put down her book and skittered to meet him there, throwing open the door and throwing her arms about his neck. For a moment, he simply froze and let her hug him. “I’m sorry, Hashi,” she whispered, the tears already beginning to roll down her cheeks. She cried for a while, shaking and shuddering in his grasp. It seemed that it was always this way, with them. She was always thinking about everyone but him, working herself into a tizzy, latching onto drama, and forcing him to get her through it.

Perhaps she was more like her mother and father than she thought. It was not a comforting thought.

“Shh,” he placated. “I’ve already forgiven you.” He put his arms around her and stroked her hair.

She had never deserved this man.

“Let’s sit a while,” he suggested. They sat upon the edge of the porch, feet dangling over the side. Hashirama lounged back on his palms, looking out. Mito drew within herself, pressing her hands onto her knees and avoiding eye contact. “Mito…” he began, his voice serious. “I won’t pretend I’m not upset.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I know. If you weren’t, we’d have a larger problem. As it stands… I am not you. I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through or how you feel. The past few days, I tried to put myself in your place, thought about what I might have done. I’d like to believe I would have done what was right, but I can see why that line isn’t so black and white. After all, he came first, so who was it that you were really betraying?”

That word, _betraying_ , didn’t make her feel any better.

“Mito… I can forgive this thing you’ve done. When we stood in front of the altar and promised to care for each other no matter what, I meant it. We will both make mistakes. That’s not what I am most worried about.” He turned toward her. “What I am worried about is that there are variables that I am missing. There are things you are not telling me, and lies that you are. He _will_ come back, Mito.”

Mito blinked. “But you told Tobirama—“

He shook his head. “I lied. Just like you did. Madara has changed, as have I. Konoha is my dream, and I’ll do anything to protect it. Apparently that means I lie now,” he said with a rueful smile. “But Konoha _was_ Madara’s dream, and he left it. I don’t know what he will do now. I am this village’s Hokage, charged with its protection. There is a chance that Tobirama is correct. Madara might come back for vengeance; he might come back to kill. Mito…we need to be prepared. Do you know what I am saying?”

She took a deep breath, feeling wretched. _Of course_ she knew what he was saying. He was asking her to honor her vows to him and betray Madara. She was honor bound to do it, for it was her role to be a partner to her husband, to assist him where she could. She had no such connection to Uchiha Madara. “I know what you are saying, Senju Hashirama,” she said bitterly, reflecting on Touka’s words. _Just be ready to choose which of them lives, and which of them dies._

Hashirama merely waited for her to decide, understanding the weight of such a decision. Either she would trust him from now on, and they would enjoy a peaceful marriage, or she would remain shut off, and they would be forever distant. The trouble was, she was just as certain she wanted to remain in Konoha as she was certain that she did not want to betray Madara. Unfortunately, she knew that Hashirama had subtly issued an ultimatum. She could not remain between them forever. _Just be ready to choose…_

She sighed. “The bijuu are real,” she admitted finally. “I think he means to control one.”

Hashirama paled. “He’s going to… capture a tailed beast? And use it to attack the village?”

“I think so,” Mito confirmed, feeling the weight of responsibility, understanding the mysterious force that drove her husband to work himself to exhaustion. Konoha needed her. Her, in particular, because of the power she wielded. They had one more thing in common, now. “But, I think I can help.”

* * *

 

He found the beast far, far away from Konoha, curled up in the dried up bed of a lake. It was napping, uncaring of its surroundings or anything that it thought might present a challenge. For a few minutes Madara merely stared at it, awestruck, his fingers curled around the hafts of his weapons so tight they were aching. He had had no reason to distrust Mito when she had told him the bijuu were real, but believing her and seeing it for himself were two very different things. All of their lives, the bijuu had been myths, nightmare stories to tell to children to make them behave. They had never before been seen by mortal eyes, though, so it would follow logically that the bijuu were simply another invented mythology… a massive, fantastic saga of limitless chakra for boys with ambitions to dream of one day taming.

A single tear slid down his face. Hideous, unfathomably malicious as it was, the Kyuubi was the most beautiful representation of chakra that Madara had ever seen.

The Nine-tailed Fox was massive, easily half as large as the village itself. The hateful red eyes of the Kyuubi were each time and a half his own height. Each one of its claws was long enough to skewer him three times over, ending in a wickedly sharp point that was so fine it could pick his teeth if it chose. The menace that seethed within its flesh was almost overwhelming, writhing, _daring_. As if it felt him gazing upon its peaceful rest, its eyes winked open. Its tremendous head lifted slowly, and it stared at him, apathetic, disinterested and unafraid. How many centuries had this thing wandered the world, unchallenged? How had no one ever known that it existed before?

It leveled a malevolent glare at the tiny, pathetic human who had dared challenge him. If Madara had to put a guess to it, it might have been mildly amused. It probably thought it could obliterate him with little more than a sneeze, but since the little man standing before him had swaggered up to him with a look of intense concentration on his tiny face, the Fox was at least willing to humor him. A break in the monotony, at least. Dimly, Madara wondered if it had ever seen a human before.

“Kyuubi,” Madara bellowed, raising his voice so that it had enough power to carry across the vast distance between them. Hearing Madara’s voice, the black lips curled in the semblance of a sneering rictus. “I am Uchiha Madara, the clan leader of the Uchiha clan. You will serve me.”

The fox inhaled a deep breath. Around him, the trees shivered and bowed toward the demon. A heavy wind blew up from behind Madara, dragging his hair toward the epicenter and causing his clothing to shiver, too. Madara remained unmoved, one weapon in each hand. If he tore his eyes away from this thing, it would be all over for him. Madara was, indeed, a powerful adversary, but foxes were naturally clever, and this one was a demon besides. Underestimating it would be fatal; likewise, if the Kyuubi underestimated him, Madara would have the advantage. He was counting on that, in fact. 

As the fox exhaled, a hot, humid wind blasted his face that was so foul that he felt the irresistible urge to leave. Deep within the recesses of his soul, a small voice was telling him that coming here had been a mistake, that he should leave while the thing still allowed him to live. He held his ground, though only just, for his feet struggled to find purchase on the hard, dry ground of the lakeside.

Finally, the blast of fox breath subsided, and it spoke to him. “Uchiha… Madara…” it tested, feeling his name upon its tongue. “Are you the one that was promised?”

Madara had to admit that he had no idea what it was talking about, but if the right answer would have made it more agreeable, why not? “Yes.”

The fox stared, then snorted with derision. “I doubt it. You don’t look like much.”

Madara was irked, but he had expected a battle, and its insult gave him the opening that he needed. “Fight me then, Kyuubi. Let’s find out which of us is stronger.”

It laughed, uncurling its body from where it had been napping to stand at its full height. Madara watched with suppressed awe as it rose up, up, up, towering above him. Red eyes glared down from the shadow of its face, blotting out the sun. It made his neck sore just to look up that far, but he held his ground. Finally, when it had unraveled completely, tails lashing dangerously from side to side, air charged with the overwhelming presence of a chakra so evil that Madara felt nervous, it smirked. “If you do this, you will die. Run along, little human. Maybe I’ll forget you.”

Madara smirked right back. “Hn.” The weapons in his hands were an extension of his body. His chakra was a river of life raging within him, charged with the dreams of Izuna, and of Mito, the promise of a world without war. He felt the call of their strength and their belief in him. He thought of Momoka’s unadulterated joy, untouched by the ugliness of their world, so full of hope and curiosity. If he fought, if he did not falter in the face of the Nine Tails, if he captured it… all of his dreams would come true.

At long last, he understood true strength, in that moment. His whole life, he had been fighting for himself. He had sought to become stronger, to experience victory, to reap its rewards. He was a man alone, aiming for his ambitions. He had trained, fought, won and lost alone. He shut his eyes.

He was not alone anymore. He felt their spirits within him as keenly as he felt the exhilarating burn of his own chakra. He took a deep breath. When his eyes flew open, they blazed with all of the love and fury of the Mangekyou. He had a fox to catch.


	35. Breathe

* * *

Mito slid the curtain aside and peeked out the window, observing Hashirama’s private moment with his thoughts. She felt she deserved it, to know what kind of turmoil he felt for all the sins she had committed, so that she could properly atone. He looked like a king at rest, despite everything. He sat straight backed, hands on his thighs, staring out at the yard, dressed head to toe in his armor as if Madara could come back at any moment, ready for war.

Maybe he could.

The love in their marriage was apparently on hold for the time being. In its place was a kind of determined partnership. Each of them held half the key to defeating Madara. Hashirama was the only one strong enough to stand up to him in a fight, and she knew from the stories she had heard in her time as a medic that it would be the kind of fight that would shake worlds. He would have to risk his life for the sake of the rest of them, and he’d have to fight a friend—his dearest friend—in the process. He could lose. He could die.

She did not envy him his plight. Thinking about it had created a distance between Mito and Hashirama, but it was a necessary distance.

Each of them held a secret reason for wanting to find any reason at all to allow him to live, and between the two of them, they were well aware of that shared concern. It was something they had in common that no one else understood. Tobirama had always believed that Madara was a mad dog that needed to be put down. Touka was a firm believer that sometimes it was safer if certain people were dead. Logic was much easier to understand than emotion, though, a lesson that Mito was still learning, mostly because she didn’t like that lesson. Logic dictated that Madara should die. Her emotions were screaming that he shouldn’t.

Looking out upon Hashirama’s grim face, she wondered if he was having the same argument with himself. She dropped the curtain and went out to him.

Momoka was in the yard, tending to her baby trees. She had planted the seeds that Hashirama had given her, and had since been nurturing them with the utmost care. She checked the soil around their tender trunks, gauging the moisture. When they needed it, she watered them. She sang to them every day, saying that she had grown up strong because Mito had sung to her as a baby. One day, she had vowed, she would be just like her oto-san, and the trees would grow faster.

Hashirama didn’t stir, though Mito was certain he knew she was there. She stood behind him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. The task before them was one that they would tackle together, but they didn’t have to like it. All she could do for the time being was offer her support and mentally prepare herself, as he did. Her heart ached, though, for she already knew how this would end, no matter how many different scenarios played out in her head. Hashirama had already likely come to the same conclusion.

There would never be peace in Konoha as long as Uchiha Madara was alive.

“Hashi,” she mumbled, squeezing his shoulders.

“Hm?”

She frowned. She didn’t want to interrupt his deep thought process, but there was something important that she needed to discuss. She’d been digging through her sealing knowledge and Kaguya’s book for the past several weeks. “There’s a way to interrupt his hold on a bijuu.”

He was silent for a moment. Both of their gazes drifted over to Momoka. She was kneeling in the dirt, petting the leaves of one of her saplings with the back of a knuckle, smiling with a secretly contained intense adoration. Madara’s smile. “Teach me,” he commanded.

Mito reached over his shoulders. “Give me your hands,” she ordered. He lifted them, and she gripped them with her own elegant fingers. She explained how the technique worked, how the seal he would create worked negatively against another, breaking the contact. She traced the kanji upon his palm as she described it. It was a modified version of the techniques her mother had imparted, and she was quite proud of herself for having figured it out. Chakra required a delicate balance. Maintaining a technique as powerful as a summoning contract was complex and difficult. In the midst of a heated battle, Madara’s concentration would necessarily be divided. All he would need to do was disrupt the difficult balance required to hold a bijuu under Madara’s control.

“That’s very impressive, Mito,” he mumbled when she was done explaining. It sounded sad, though, as if he didn’t actually want that knowledge. She wasn’t pleased to have a need for it either.

Without another word, she went inside. She had her own battle with Madara coming up, and she needed time with her own private thoughts. She understood, at last, what it meant to be kunoichi. She understood Touka and her insane level of obligation. She had since forgiven her for going to Tobirama with her story, for Touka had only been acting in the best interests of Konoha, and after seeing Touka’s face that evening when Tobirama had woken them all up, she understood that Touka hadn’t told him because she wanted to.

Touka had told Tobirama because Tobirama was completely objective. He had been the right person to tell. Tobirama’s sole concern was for the safety of the village, to the extreme that he would kill his own brother to protect the peace. That level of devotion had affected Mito. This is what it meant to be a Shinobi: you put your personal desires to the side to achieve a greater goal. They all shared a goal, now. All except for Madara.

Now she understood. Madara’s goals were unclear to the Senju. He hadn’t seemed to be too concerned with the well being of the village, nor even for the Uchiha themselves. Mito knew well, though, what Madara’s goal was: his family. He would sacrifice anyone and everyone in his way to achieve it, even if that meant destroying Konoha and his best friend. She loved him, but the depth of her love was not deep enough to condone the lengths that he would go to achieve those goals. She, too, would fight.

Touka had cautioned her that the day would come when she might have to choose which one of her lovers would live, and which would die.  The day would come when she would have to set her feelings aside and do what was right.

That day was not today. Today she would cry.

Touka and Tobirama appeared on their doorstep the following evening after Momoka had gone to sleep. The expressions that they each wore were grim, although that was more or less normal for both of them. Touka’s face looked like she was ready to ride headlong into a battle, and one that would surely cost her life. Tobirama just looked… unsympathetic. In his mind, Mito and Hashirama had both brought this upon themselves, and now it was up to him to make sure that it ended well, and he was not best pleased.

Hashirama let them in, and they had another ‘family meeting’ around the kitchen table. All of them were well informed now, though, and all that was left to do was prepare. “Mito believes that Madara will seek the bijuu,” Hashirama stated. “He may use it to attack Konoha. I will fight him alone.”

“You said he wouldn’t,” Tobirama accused. It was hardly a necessary statement. All it served to do was to jab at his brother and reaffirm that he had been correct.

“What I had said was that I didn’t believe he would do this,” Hashirama amended smoothly, “but that doesn’t mean that we should not be prepared in case he does. I can sever his hold on the tailed beast. Tobirama, you will remain in Konoha and protect the village in case I fail.”

“I should be fighting with you,” he deadpanned.

“I need you to stay behind,” Hashirama urged.

“So you can let him go?” Tobirama accused cruelly.

Hashirama turned to face him then, allowing just a hint of the pain he endured on Madara’s behalf. “No, Tobirama… so I can say goodbye.”

Tobirama’s eyes fell to the tabletop, subdued. “I will do as you say, of course,” Tobirama continued. “And what of Uzumaki-san?” His eyes glanced her way, cold and loveless. Whatever friendship they had once enjoyed was apparently dissolved now. The gravity of her sin was unredeemable in his eyes.

“Touka-san will restrain Mito,” Hashirama declared.

Tobirama raised an eyebrow. “They’re friends. I can’t trust Touka-kun in this.”

Touka colored and raised her voice with indignance. “I have never proven myself undeserving of your trust, Shishou,” she breathed.

Tobirama sliced her with a glance. Her eyes lowered. “Touka-kun is a victim of her emotions and cannot be trusted to think logically right now.” The red in her cheeks deepened further. “I can put your wife in a comfortable cell under guard. She will be treated fairly, but kept secure and safe.”

“Be that as it may, I do not trust anyone else to protect Mito beyond you and Touka-san. If the rumors begin and word gets out that Mito has a personal connection to Uchiha Madara as he attacks the village, I need to know that she is safe. Otherwise, my own battle will be compromised and it won’t matter anyway.” Tobirama opened his mouth to argue, but Hashirama’s own voice deepened with authority. “She stays with Touka-san. End of discussion.”

Tobirama’s lips snapped shut. “Very well.”

She and Touka were dismissed then. Tobirama and Hashirama needed time to plan out scenarios and battle formations. With the touchy subject of Madara himself out of the way and with the matter of imprisoning Mito off the table, they eased back into their perfect cooperation, reminding Mito of the time when Tobirama had still been her friend, and how impressed she had been to see the two working together. As they put their heads together and began drawing plans out upon the table, Mito and Touka retreated to the porch.

“Well,” Touka began, her voice low and secretive. “What will you do Mito-kun?”

Mito thought about it. But, in the end, it wasn’t really up to her. “I think the question we should be asking is… what will _you_ do, Touka-kun?”

* * *

 

The Kyuubi sprawled out on its back, howling with anger. It knew that it was vulnerable on its back and flailed with the only weapon it had at its disposal. Its nine tails lashed out violently, wildly, snapping ancient oak trees like twigs and generally turning the area into a war zone. Their battle had raged on for the better part of a day already, and Madara was pleased. The demon fox had been a worthy adversary. If he faltered even for a minute, those tails and the tenacity of the thing would be his undoing.

They were both tired. The fox had exploded with power the moment they had engaged, tearing up the earth and blasting dark bombs of antimatter wildly. It was clear from his tactics that he wasn’t planning on settling in for a real fight. He had underestimated Madara and figured he could easily crush the puny human that fought him with a blade no larger than a single fiber of his wretched fur.

Madara had reserved his strength, however, because he had known that facing the Nine Tailed Demon Fox would tax his reserves. As the fox fell, the force of its massive body digging the dried up lake bed even deeper, Madara charged. He dodged the whipping tails and the shrapnel storming about him from the destruction that raged, up the fox’s belly and across its throat. The fox’s teeth gnashed, snapping scant inches from the man himself.

Madara’s Susano’o flared into being a moment later, encasing him in a shell of chakra and armor. The Kyuubi growled with unpleasant surprise, struggling to pick itself up off the ground. Its claws dug deep rivulets in the earth and its tails stilled; it knew where its enemy was now, and thrashing its tails was a wasted effort. Nonetheless, it could not move fast enough. The blue sentinel that protected Madara gripped the fox around the throat. Within it, Madara smiled tiredly. This fight was over. “Uchiha… Madara…” the fox grated, the corners of its mouth pulled down in a disbelieving scowl.

Madara said nothing. He had just enough chakra left for this last thing. Beneath him, the Kyuubi went slack, for the beast knew that it was defeated. Red eyes locked onto red eyes. He felt the connection form between them and gasped at the sudden influx of power. The chakra of the demon was _immense_ , intoxicating. He had to take several deep breaths just to keep his excitement at a minimum. What would it be like to have nine of these things?

 _No one_ would stand in his way.

Madara released the Susano’o and released his hold on the fox. With it under his control, he would be able to summon it at any time from this very spot. All that was left now was to return to Konoha. He walked slowly off of the body of the Nine Tailed Fox, muscles trembling with exhaustion. When he had reached the broken tree line, he collapsed. For today, and probably tomorrow, it would be better if he simply rested. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This battle with the Kyuubi went a little differently in the manga. I had already written this, though, before I realized it. In the manga, Madara basically swaggers up and says "You will serve me... your power is better suited to be harnessed by the likes of me," blah blah blah. And then he snares it with the Mangekyou and that's that. 
> 
> I like the idea of them fighting a lot more, though, so when I saw that I was like "Aww... that's lame!" and ultimately decided to keep my scene as is. 
> 
> Anyway... this chapter is called "Breathe" because this is basically the calm before the storm, if you can't tell. 
> 
> I liked this chapter a lot... I think, for those of you that are still raging at Mito or see Hashi as a bit of a doormat... I feel like this served as a pretty good window into how they view the situation as a whole, and honestly, it's my belief that their shared feelings for Uchiha Madara is a point of strength between them, rather than strife.


	36. Forbidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, shit, guys!!!! We're almost DONE!!!! :-O

* * *

The window held little resistance, and he easily slid it open. He had seldom had a use for stealth, but this was a special occasion. He set down one toe upon the floorboards, then gently, smoothly eased himself into the house. When his whole body was within the room, he turned and closed the window excruciatingly slowly. Never once did the pane even whisper. Madara was feeling pretty good about himself.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching them sleep. It brought a minute pang of jealousy; _Hashirama_ got to sleep in the same bed with her every night. _Hashirama_ got to put his hands on her whenever he wanted, while Madara had to wait until he could catch her alone, stealing kisses and keeping his feelings quiet. It simply was not fair. He glared at the man’s bare shoulders, peeking out from above the sheets. It was easier to hate him, seeing him like this. Happy. Replete. Living the life that should have been Madara’s all along. He would change all of that, tonight.

Luckily, Mito slept closest to the window. He crept one step closer, moving slowly. A Shinobi like Hashirama could wake up at any moment simply for sensing another presence, for in every elite Shinobi there was a level of caution that never slept. Madara’s hands moved swiftly, cupping one over Mito’s mouth and using the other to put a finger to his lips. Her eyelids flew open, wide with fear. Upon seeing it was him, though, she relaxed. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then Madara slowly retracted his hand and stepped back.

Mito glared at him, clearly disapproving of his presence there. Nonetheless, she expertly extricated herself from the sheets. She made a move to cover her body as she searched for something to put on, causing Madara to smirk. _That modesty of hers…_ Finally, dressed and awake, Mito grasped his hand and led him out into the rest of the house. Madara blinked in surprise to see Tobirama sleeping on the futon, and nearly cried out in shock when he noticed a woman curled into his side. Even in the dark, even with her hair down, he recognized Senju Touka, the Senju’s famous genjutsu user.

For a moment, Madara considered killing them in their sleep, just in case. He dismissed the idea, though. Soon, none of it would matter.

He bumped into Mito as she stopped suddenly. His gaze jerked toward her face, trying to gauge what had caused her to pause. She was staring at Tobirama and Touka, her expression unreadable. Several moments passed, the silence broken only occasionally by the soft snoring of Tobirama and the sound of easy breathing. Mito’s dark eyes found his in the near complete darkness. She seemed pleased. With a romantic sigh and a gentle tug on his hand, she led him to the front door, opened it just as silently as he had opened her window, and led him outside.

The moment the door shut behind them, he yanked on her hand, jerking her into his embrace, unable to resist. Her body was a perfect fit for his, and she melded into him as if she belonged there. Breathless and surprised, she stared up at his face. He held her tightly; even if she had wanted to escape, he would not have let her. Then, he kissed her, pouring every ounce of passion and promise that he could into that one act. In his arms, she sighed and relaxed, her wrists hooking behind his neck. He fell into that kiss with his full heart and soul, breathless, weightless, filled to bursting with a joy he never thought was even possible. She returned it just as eagerly.

If he died now, he’d have been just fine with that. Life couldn’t get any better.

Finally, when he had had enough of her—for the time being, anyway—he broke the kiss, swaying on his feet, rocking them both, still entwined. “What are you doing here?” she asked him, affectionately annoyed.

He grinned, feeling like a teenager, breaking rules for the fun of breaking rules. He had sneaked into his friend’s house and stole away with his wife, walking past sleeping enemies in the process. He felt thrillingly deviant, and it filled him with potent excitement. He would take her right here, right now, except that he needed to conserve his energy for the evening’s agenda. He tweaked her chin instead, memorizing the way her smile looked upon her face in the darkness. “I promised I would come back,” he murmured. “I always keep my promises.”

She smiled. “You _did_ promise,” she agreed.

“Mito, I have the Kyuubi,” he blurted, unable to hide his enthusiasm.

Her smile fled. “The Nine Tails?” she whispered.

He nodded. “You should go somewhere safe,” he continued more seriously. “There’s something I must do, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Take Momoka-chan and leave the village. I will find you.”

“What will you do?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

She _would_ ask. He smiled, trying to appear reassuring. “I know you won’t like it, Mito, so I’d rather not say.”

Her eyes fell. “You mean to destroy the village, don’t you?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

He sighed. He had guessed that she would not understand. She was soft hearted and sweet. He loved that about her, but it didn’t suit his purposes now. If he needed, he would force her outside the village and restrain her to keep her safe, but this was happening whether she liked it or not. Konoha could not be allowed to remain; Hashirama could not be allowed to live. Their existence threatened any advent of a future with Mito. “It must be this way,” he told her with a frown.

He waited as she thought about it, listening to the crickets chirping. She would need time to adjust. While he watched the wheels in her head turn, he stroked her hair, elated at its softness. It soothed him, prepared him for the unpleasant things he had yet to do tonight. Finally, she blinked, waking herself as if from a dream. “I understand,” she agreed. “I’ll need to pack a couple of things and prepare Momoka. You’ll need to give me about an hour.”

He nodded, happy she understood. “I knew you’d do what was right,” he told her. “Before I go, though, I need to see her.”

Her smile slipped again. “Madara, it’s not safe. Tobirama and Touka would kill you if you woke them up.”

He snorted softly. “They would _try_.”

She gave him a look.

He pouted. “I will be quiet, Mito,” he placated. “But I am not going anywhere until I get to see her.”

She bit her lip, unhappy. Then, with a deep sigh, she waved him to follow. She reached for the door handle. Madara, feeling wicked, snatched her hand and twirled her again. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, needing something hold onto. Grinning, feeling playful and happier than he had ever been, he stole another searing kiss, feeling his body engulf in flames, stealing her breath. “I love you, Mito,” he whispered against her lips.

He felt her smile. “Love you, too,” she responded.

His heart pounded at the admission. He wanted so badly to have her, here, now, everywhere, whenever. There was something fatally attractive about wanting to fuck his friend’s wife on their porch while his brother’s killer slept harmlessly within. He could feel the blood pulsing in his ears. He groaned, suffering a strong dilemma. He needed his energy, but… he felt her chest heaving against his, the strong cadence of her heart. He could taste the sweetness of her lips. Imagining the kind of high he would feel for indulging in his desire was a strong drug.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she accused, tugging herself free. “And the answer is no.” He loosed a breath of relief, almost glad she had wrested the decision from him. “Come on, then,” she bade him. “And please, please be careful. If they wake up, we’re both dead.”

“I would never let anything happen to you,” he promised.

She sighed regretfully and opened the door. They reentered her home, shut the door softly behind them. The sound of crickets was replaced with Tobirama’s snoring. Mito led him by the hand again, soft slippered feet making not a sound as she guided him to their daughter’s room. Another door was opened silently, and Madara disappeared within. Mito clutched at his arm as he slid inside, whispering, “If someone wakes up, I’ll yawn, and you should hide.”

“Okay,” he replied.

He sat down on the edge of Momoka’s bed, his heart full. The moonlight from the window was just enough to make out her outline. He brushed a tendril of hair out of her face so he could see it better, marveling at how much love a person could feel. Every shred of temper and hatred that he fiercely held onto evaporated around her. “This is all for you, Momo-chan,” he whispered, bending to kiss her forehead.

“Oto-san…” she grumbled sleepily, tugging the blanket up over her head. “Sleeping.”

His breath caught in his throat. Even if she did think she was talking to Hashirama, hearing her call him that awakened a fierce protective instinct. He almost _hoped_ someone in the next room would wake up to challenge him. He wasn’t even aware that he had tears in his eyes until one of them slapped onto his hand. Trembling, touched in a way he’d never known, he left her to her dreaming.

When this was all over, he’d never have to feel empty or alone again. With Tobirama dead, Izuna would be avenged. With Hashirama dead, Mito would be his completely, and he’d never have to worry about the ‘might of the Senju’ ever again. With the Senju wiped out, the Uchiha would reign unopposed. And finally, with Konoha gone, all remaining reminders of everything that had ever bothered him would be erased.

A fresh start, with everything exactly as it should be.

* * *

 

She kissed him goodbye, conveniently detached from her emotions. Her mother would have been proud, she surmised. Aye, and Touka, too.

As she walked back inside, she stopped in front of the futon one more time, staring at the two as they slept. She never would have guessed it, but seeing them sleeping like that… it just seemed right, somehow. For the first time since they had moved to Konoha, Tobirama finally looked peaceful.

So much made sense, seeing them that way. She remembered how Tobirama was intimidated by Touka, how Touka had jumped to the conclusion that Mito had married the younger Senju brother and lost her footing in shock. The fond nicknames, or the way she had inexplicably dropped the honorific, yet she always showed him the utmost respect to his face, even calling him Shishou. She was absolutely horrified that she might have caused harm to his reputation or implicated him in Madara’s assassination, and then had feared telling him. And Tobirama had taught her the Hiraishin?

 _Touka-kun is a victim of her emotions and cannot be trusted to think logically right now,_ she recalled him saying. It made her wonder how long this had been going on. Had he already known, then? The progression of this relationship fascinated Mito, but she knew that she would never know the truth of it. Likely, Touka had known that she could not speak of it. She and Tobirama were cousins and comrades. He was her superior officer. Such a relationship compromised their professional relationship.

She doubted she was even supposed to see them this way. Likely they had snuggled together after she and Hashirama had already fallen asleep. They were Shinobi; they slept light. Probably, they would wake before Hashirama and she did, too, and would return to their solo positions, Touka on the futon and Tobirama on the floor, as they had been these past couple of weeks.

She supposed she had Madara to thank for that, at least. If he had not woken her, Mito would never have gotten to see that secret, precious moment.

But now what? She needed to wake them. The battle was imminent. And yet, she could not reveal that she had seen the two entwined. She twisted her lips together as she considered her options. She surely could not wake Hashirama first. Of all the people to hide this from, he would be the one they would least wish to inform. Waking Tobirama was not an option either. If he thought they were found out, he might end their affair. As Madara had done, Mito clapped a hand over Touka’s mouth and a finger to her lips, waking the kunoichi first.

Touka rolled easily, smoothly, like water itself, alighting on the floor in a crouch as if she had never been sleeping. She stood slowly, her eyes never leaving Mito’s. She glanced at Tobirama, then back at Mito. Her expression was troubled. She had been found out.

Mito put one finger to her lips and smiled, then silently retreated to her bedroom. She knelt before Hashirama’s sleeping face. “Wake up, Hashi,” she whispered, touching his face.

His eyes snapped open in alarm. Their gazes held for a moment. Then he shut his eyes and cocked his head, as if listening. He took a deep breath. Then his eyes popped open again and he frowned. “Madara.”

She nodded. She left him to get dressed, marching into their living room crowing, “RISE AND SHINE KOHAIIIII!” Touka had pretended to fall asleep upon the floor, but she snapped to attention.

Tobirama sleepily stirred to life, stretching, breathing deeply through his nose. His eyes blearily opened and shut, then slid sideways, stopping for a moment on Touka, who was not where he had seen her last. Mito pretended she didn’t notice. He yawned and then stood, cracking knuckles and stretching more. “Alright,” he said in the midst of holding a yawn in. “Touka-kun, take Uzumaki-san and Momoka-chan to your quarters. If it starts to look bad… get out of there.”

“I’m not leaving Konoha without a fight,” she grated.

He leveled her with a stare. Their eyes held for several moments. Mito recognized a lovers’ spat when she saw one, even if it was done completely in silence. “Kohai. That’s an order.”

She made a face and looked away. Mito could hear her teeth grating from where she stood. “Fine,” she growled through clenched teeth.

Hashirama clanked into the room then, dressed head to toe in armor. He looked to Mito, then Tobirama, then Touka. “We all have very specific roles tonight,” he reminded them. “I must insist that you stick to the plan. I won’t be able to focus if I have to worry about any of you. You’re all very important to me. And,” he added, his face lined with sadness, “if I die tonight--”

“Hashi—“ Mito began, her heart aching for him.

“—I leave my brother, Tobirama, in charge as the Hokage after me.”

“There will be no dying tonight,” Tobirama stated flatly.

“I don’t have time to argue with you tonight, Tobirama,” he said tiredly, dumping his forehead into his hand. “Just this once, just do what you’re told, okay?”

Tobirama had the grace to look distressed. “Then we’ll argue tomorrow,” he snarled, his voice strained.

There was an audible sigh from the leader of the Senju. Putting it off until tomorrow was a declaration that there _would be_ a tomorrow. “Yeah,” Hashirama agreed, peeking through his fingers and smiling. “We’ll argue tomorrow.”

Mito crossed the space between them and threw herself against his chest. He grunted from the impact, but his arms settled over her shoulders anyway. “Come back,” she whispered, choked with emotions. No matter that Madara had been between them for the entirety of their marriage, Mito still loved him. She couldn’t abide something happening to him.  

“I definitely will,” he told her softly, for her ears alone, “for you. Just stay safe, for me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nana: "I'm afraid Tobirama is right but he seems so pragmatic at times that really annoys me, he needs to taste a love of his own >:( and understand that a woman hearts is complicated and not simply black or white."
> 
> AHAHAHAHAHA Did you see THAT coming?!?
> 
> I ship these two so hard. Don't know why.
> 
> AMY MADE ME A FANART!!! A FANART A FANART!!! FOR MEEEEEEEEEE. *dances* You have no idea how much this means to me. No one's ever done this for me before, not ever! NOT ONCE!!! Here, look, look look!!!!
> 
> http://amyenah.deviantart.com/art/Our-Little-Secret-493888063


	37. Flight

* * *

Madara waited, counting the minutes as they went by, wagging his foot anxiously from a nearby tree branch, completely at ease. He had nothing to fear and everything to look forward to, but the waiting was still difficult for him. He had never been a very patient man, and victory was so close he could almost taste it. With the memory of Mito’s lips on his and the promise of absolute and eternal peace, he might as well have been on top of the world. He gazed up at the moon, for once marveling that, all over the world, everyone saw the same moon. He even went so far as to whistle a tune. He was actually several phrases into it before he realized that it was something his mother had sung to him when he was a boy.

 _What are the words?_ he suddenly wondered.

“Madara,” Hashirama’s voice reached his ears.

Madara pouted. He had hoped that he would not have been sensed so quickly. Tobirama must have woken up and had to pee, and probably sensed him. He couldn’t help it if his chakra signature could light up the world, now could he? “Hashirama,” he greeted pleasantly, as if it were simply a fine evening, two gentleman enjoying the advent of autumn, saying hello in passing.

“Have you come back home, then, to stay?” he asked. Madara heard the tonality, though. Hashirama was radiating threat. He had come dressed in his armor, wearing the newly adopted symbol of the Village Hidden in the Leaves upon his brow.

“Hokage,” he muttered to himself, the word tasting sour. Pathetic.

“Eh?” He asked, as if he had not heard.

“No,” he answered the question calmly, biting through the skin of his thumb. He had been hoping to begin this on his own terms, but it seemed his old friend had other ideas. “I came to take what is mine,” he ended in a snarl. He dropped from the tree, alighting upon the ground with the grace and silence that only a Shinobi of his caliber could muster. _I, Inu, Tori, Saru, Hitsuji…_ Hand seals flew from one to the next. Hashirama’s face twisted into an unhappy scowl. He braced himself for the coming battle. Madara’s blood heated. At least he didn’t have to wait anymore. He hated waiting.

_“KUCHIYOSE NO JUTSU!”_

* * *

 

Tobirama accompanied them for a short distance into town. Mito took it as her opportunity to make peace with him. It seemed he was finally more worried than he was angry. There might not be another time. “Tobirama-dono…” she began, adjusting Momoka in her arms. At five, she was getting really heavy, but if there was going to be an attack on the four of them, Tobirama and Touka would need their arms free, as Mito wasn't much use in an actual fight.

Tobirama looked at her and guessed at what she was doing. “Uzumaki-san,” he said to her, his voice calm. “I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re about to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” she said anyway. “I don’t have any excuses for my behavior. I was only doing what I thought was right.”

“You’ve made mistakes. We all have, and we continue to make them all the time.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I am not ready to forgive you, Uzumaki-san. Your actions put all of us at risk, yourself most of all.”

“I was fine,” she countered, confused. “I’m the one he’d want to hurt the least.”

He shook his head slowly. “You only think that. You’re naïve. If at any point you had betrayed him, you would have been the first one that he hurt. The only reason you are alive now is because he believes your heart has been faithful. If he suspected that you were not, you would have been killed, and Momoka-chan would be in his hands alone.”

She frowned, trying to see the truth in his words.

“You should never have tried to handle this alone. Touka-kun has done you a great disservice in leading you to believe that you were strong enough.” It was so matter-of-fact that Mito felt insulted.

“You’ve always thought I was weak,” she complained. “You always thought I needed protecting.”

“Because you are and you _do_ ,” he insisted brutally, his voice rising in volume and authority. “While I appreciate the friendship you have developed with Touka-kun, and I realize you are learning some skills that might be useful to you, you are not ready to employ them with the level of experience required. You played a very dangerous game between two of the strongest Shinobi to have ever lived. You have caused much strife. You’re lucky to be alive, and _all of us_ will be lucky to survive tonight.”

“He’ll win,” she asserted stubbornly.

“Maybe,” Tobirama cruelly detracted. “But the fact that this battle is even happening is your fault. By tomorrow, one of them will be dead. That is also your fault.”

There was pressure in her chest as her heart broke. She hadn’t wanted to hear those words from his lips, or anyone’s, mostly because she knew them to be true. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, feeling small.

He smiled, a shadow of the smiles he used to have for her. “I’ve wanted Madara dead for a long time,” Tobirama confessed. “If we’re all alive tomorrow, Uzumaki-san… I might think about forgiving you then.” He stopped then and hugged her roughly, a potential forever goodbye. Then, he looked at Touka, raked over her body with one _very_ telling glance, smirked, and disappeared.

Touka swore. “That bastard,” she growled. “Where in the hell is my hug, eh?” She began stalking away, expecting Mito to keep up with her. Her legs were much longer, though, and Mito nearly had to jog to keep up. “Mito-kun,” she snapped. “I will ask that whatever you saw between that man and me… forget it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mito replied with a smile.

There was the rhythmic and pronounced _creak, creak_ of Touka’s armor as she led Mito in relative silence down the abandoned streets of Konoha. The villagers were all sleeping by this time except for the few Shinobi who maintained patrols. Every so often, one of them would reveal themselves from their posts and execute a short bow. It took Mito a second to remember that Touka held the rank of captain; only Tobirama and Hashirama held more authority than she did.

Touka ignored the sentries. “I’m sorry that Tobi-dobe has been so cruel to you,” she said, breaking the silence. “He only does that because he is scared.”

“Tobirama, scared?” she echoed.

“Yes, scared,” she scoffed impatiently. “He hides every emotion that he has under a veil of anger,” she explained. “Scared, sad, irritated—“

“—Enamored?” she supplied.

Touka stopped dead in her tracks. Her hair shimmied as she turned her head only slightly. “A second ago you didn’t know what I was talking about,” she accused.

“I lied. I’m good at that now.”

She shook her head, collecting her thoughts. “It’s forbidden,” she said quietly, helplessly.

“How long?” Mito asked.

Touka’s face turned upward, staring at the night sky. She inhaled a deep breath and released it noisily. “My whole life,” she confessed. “I don’t even know why. He’s such a prick, most of the time,” she added fondly.

Mito had to smile. “I might know something of what you’re dealing with,” she said wryly.

Touka turned further, regarding Mito out of her one visible eye. She smiled, sharing the sentiment, back on even ground once again. “Yeah, you might.” Suddenly, her smile vanished, and her eyes hardened intensely. “Don’t you go cracking any jokes about him and me,” she warned, her voice promising one hundred kinds of death if she did.

Mito opened her mouth to defend herself, but before the words could come out, there was a crack, as of thunder. The ground shook. “It’s starting,” Touka announced grimly. “Hurry up. We need to get Momoka-chan to my place.”

They started running just as a blood-chilling roar split the air. The sound of it struck dread into Mito’s heart. Could Hashirama really stand up to that thing _and_ Madara at the same time? _Please, Hashi, come back alive._ “Touka-kun…!” she cried out, trying not to cry. She wasn’t ready for this.

“Don’t think about it!” she snapped back. “Just come on!”

Momoka chose that moment to wake up, her hand fisting into Mito’s kimono. “Oka-san…” she grumbled. “Where are we going?”

“You’re staying with Touka-kun tonight,” she told her as they ran.

She pouted. “What about you?”

“I have to go save your father.”

As they ran toward the end of the village where Touka’s quarters lay, sentries ran past them in the opposite direction, leaping to the defense of Konoha. They would join Tobirama and wait in case they were needed, a wall of determined Shinobi ready to defend their home from the threat.

If Hashirama lost.

By the time they reached Touka’s quarter, Momoka was crying. “Oka-san, I’m scared,” she wailed, not willing to let go of her mother’s clothing. “Where’s oto-san?”

Mito’s hands shook as she tried to untangle the girl’s fragile fingers from the fabric. “Not now, Momoka-chan. I need you to be brave.”

“Where’s oto-san?” she asked again. “If it’s not safe, I should be in the Hobi.”

“Touka-kun will protect you,” Mito insisted. She glanced at her friend; Touka was busy barricading the door with everything in the cramped apartment that would be heavy enough to block a door. If Madara wanted to get in, that barricade wouldn’t stop him, but old habits died hard. A barricade might at least slow him down, and even a fraction of a second might matter.

“Oka-saaaan!” Momoka wailed, still latching onto her clothes. Mito was getting frustrated. There were things she needed to do, places she needed to be. She couldn’t keep trying to unhook a toddler from her kimono.

Touka knelt next to her in one smooth motion. “Momoka-kun,” she snapped, her green eyes hard and glittering. “Your village is in danger. What did we learn?”

Momoka stopped flailing, her dark eyes growing serious. She let go of Mito’s kimono, finally, and stood. “Kunoichi protect,” she supplied hesitantly.

“Louder, kohai.” Touka’s voice was firm and commanding. Mito would have guessed that a harsh approach would have made her daughter cry, but Momoka put on a brave face and stood before the captain.

“Kunoichi protect!” she yapped back, her voice strong and filled with courage.

“Right!” Touka affirmed. “And what will you use to protect?” In her right hand, she held out a kunai. The acrid scent of poison burned Mito’s nostrils.

“Whatever is necessary and available,” Momoka replied calmly, accepting the knife.

“Momoka-kun,” Touka continued, her voice low. “No matter who comes through that door, you stab them, you hear me?” She nodded. “The enemy can wear any face. They can pretend to be anyone. Me, oto-san or oka-san, or even your friend Madara. No one who is your friend will use that door. They already know not to. Do you understand? Kohai?”

“Hai, taichou!” the little girl obeyed.

“Good. I will be right back. Do not hesitate, kunoichi. Your village is counting on you.”

Momoka nodded. Touka turned back to Mito. “Are you ready?”

Mito swallowed. _No_. “Yes.”

“I need you to be brave, oka-san,” Momoka commanded, wearing a version of Touka’s face. In both hands, she held the kunai, ready to defend.

If her five year old could be strong, Mito could be. She smiled at her daughter and nodded. “I will.”

Touka grabbed her by the shoulders, willed courage into Mito through the window of her eyes, and nodded. “Suppress your chakra as I taught you.” Mito took a deep breath and did as she was told, suppressing her chakra signature. If any could sense it, her role in this would be over.

A minute later, the world blurred. She felt the same bizarre vertigo that had assailed her that time that Tobirama had taken her to Momoka at the onset of their final battle. It still made her feel ill, but she managed not to vomit this time. After all she had been through and all she had left to do, a little bit of motion sickness hardly seemed like the time to lose her composure.

When she felt well enough to open her eyes, they were standing on the edge of a cliff top. A ways off, Mito could see the bright glow of blue chakra and the enormous mass of timber that flagged Hashirama’s technique. She gulped, her mouth suddenly dry. It was a clash of titans in epic proportions. Even going near them would get her killed. “It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” Touka asked her quietly. Numbly, Mito nodded. “Stay quiet and out of sight until it is time,” Touka ordered. “And remember not to risk yourself needlessly. You can’t do anything when you’re dead.”

“I know, Touka-kun.”

“I don’t agree with him, you know,” she added after a moment.

“Hm?”

“Tobi-dobe. When he said you weren’t ready.”

“Touka-kun…”

“You’d never have been found out if I hadn’t said something,” she mourned.

To Mito, it sounded like an apology. Instead of answering, though, she enfolded Touka in a hug. “You did what you had to. I might have done the same.”

“Mito-kun… you were magnificent. I know your emotions got tangled up in there somewhere, but what you managed to pull off…” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Touka-kun…” she breathed. “I don’t know if I can do this.” She unwound herself from the other woman, her hands and arms shaking, shivering from head to toe. She was well and truly frightened of everything that was to come.

Touka’s face was stony, all traces of emotion and weakness gone. It was the other Touka, the scary, dutiful kunoichi that Mito had admired. She stood straight, proud, addressing Mito as a captain instead of a friend. “This is bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than your broken heart. This battle you fight is for everything you hold dear. It is for your future and for Momoka-chan’s, for the safety of the Village Hidden in the Leaves. Mito-kun,” she finished fervently, “you must weigh the value of one life against many.” She smiled sadly. “This is your final test.”

Mito nodded, feeling encouraged. She was still terrified, still unsure if she could perform the moment that it was needful. Nonetheless, Touka was right. She needed to be brave, do what was necessary. _Kunoichi, protect,_ she told herself. “Touka-kun, if I die…” Touka didn’t interrupt her, as Tobirama had interrupted Hashirama. Touka understood that death was always a possibility, and she was not foolish enough to pretend otherwise. “...I leave Momoka-chan in your care.”

It was clear from her expression that she hadn’t expected that. “What of your family?”

“If you can ever find Uzumaki Nanami again, she would do well by Momoka-chan, but I think she means to stay lost,” Mito told her with a smile. “And no matter what happens, none of the other Uzumaki may be trusted with my daughter. Momoka-chan loves you, and I can trust you and Tobirama-dono to keep her safe.”

She nodded once, accepting. “Right. I should be getting back. Good luck, Mito-kun.”

Mito nodded her assent. Touka blurred out of view, back to her quarters, and to Momoka. Her absence was pronounced; without their banter to fill the emptiness of the air, Mito was forced to listen to the sounds of the fighting. She heard their voices raised, shouting words at each other, bellowing wordless cries as they clashed.

Every now and again, the ear splitting roar of the demon fox rent the air, and Mito quaked all over. The power in that voice was incredible, and Mito was not even ashamed to fear it. She listened to it intently, though, for her role in this battle had nothing to do with the men that controlled the fight, for once, and everything to do with the extra chakra signature that raged between them. When she had finally stilled her shaking hands enough that she knew she would not be paralyzed with fear, she swallowed a wave of nausea and made her way to her last battlefield.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested, as of the end of Day 4 of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, a commitment to write 50,000 words during the month of November, and my first true attempt at writing an original work of fiction), my word count stands at 29,053 words.
> 
> The story itself sits at about 89K.... but it's probably going to be at least 200K before I'm done, so I have a ways to go. :) I'll probably make you guys another video when this story is over. I've had more fun posting this story and reading your comments than any other. I've really enjoyed the conversations we've had, as well. 
> 
> Not long now and we'll be finished. I'm sad that it's ending. :(


	38. Seal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well if the Naruto manga is posting two chapters today, I ought to as well, huh?
> 
> I'm not exactly *happy* that the manga is ending, but I still think it's a cause for celebration, don't you? :) And to commemorate, I'll give you ANOTHER CHAPTER!!! <3 Love you guys!
> 
> \--Duckess

* * *

For some reason, Madara had thought that this fight was going to be a lot easier. The last time he had fought Hashirama, he had been blinded by grief, and Izuna’s eyes had been fresh in his skull, untried. He was alone and bitter, fighting purely from an emotional center, intent on destroying for the sake of destroying. Most of his army had defected already, and those that stood behind him might as well have not been there. He had not fought with a strategy in mind, and there had been no clear end goal. He had been weak then.

This time should have been different. He had a purpose. _Oh_ , what a purpose he had! Use of the Eternal Mangekyou was now as natural as breathing. The power of the Kyuubi was unsurpassed. He should have been able to mow right over Hashirama and keep going, but somehow the bastard stopped him in his tracks. Madara even cloaked the beast in his own Susano’o, an impenetrable suit of chakra armor. They clashed, two warlords of unfathomable strength, holding nothing back. In their younger years, Hashirama had held back his blows, choosing to preserve rather than destroy. Now though, Hashirama had a purpose, too.

Both were dead set on ultimate victory. Whether or not Hashirama meant to kill him was still unclear. Madara himself doubted it; if at all possible, Hashirama would find a way to let him live, as he had always had. That sentiment made him weak. Only by coming at him with the intent to kill would Hashirama be able to beat him now.

Madara would not lose.

He stared at the huge, wooden monstrosity that towered over even the Kyuubi. This technique, he had not seen before. After fighting Hashirama for literally his entirely life, that was saying something. So when Hashirama charged the behemoth forward, Madara met him head on. Large it might be, but it was still only wood. With the force of the demon fox and the added protection from the Susano’o, Madara was unafraid. The thousands of wooden fists lashed forward, striking at the head of the fox, flashing brilliantly like the fires of heaven itself.

He thought about dodging, but there really wasn’t any time. He could have blocked it, perhaps, but he was strangely mesmerized by the technique. It wasn’t often that he got to see Hashirama’s new material. In the end, as the wooden fist arced towards him, Madara chose to absorb the attack. Between Susano’o and the Kyuubi, he doubted that even that would have been enough to defeat him. As the wave of light and barrage of wooden projectiles crashed into Susano’o’s helmet, Madara thought about laughing. It was magnificent, to stand tall and unafraid against the furor of a so-called god.

There was an explosion. The world shook with the ferocity of it, and Madara nearly lost his footing upon the skull of his summon. Something was different. Shortly after, he realized that the blue of his Susano’o had faded and was fading still. “He stripped off the Susano’o,” he realized, baffled. Such a move seemed pointless to him, for he could just call forth another with only a moment’s respite.

He didn’t have time to sit pondering it, though. The earth trembled again. This time, it wasn’t from an explosion, but from the siege vehicle that Hashirama had built, lumbering towards him like some sort of forest sentinel. At the helm was Hashirama, the black mask of his sage technique making him look fearsome. That wasn’t all, though. His whole face was a study in determination. Step after heavy step, Hashirama’s giant advanced. Without Susano’o, he could not withstand that thing that grabbed the fox as if it were a child’s toy. He made a tactical retreat, abandoning the Kyuubi, forced to watch as Hashirama’s creation placed its palm against the demon fox like a blessing.

Madara bit back a curse as the fox’s eyes dulled and slowly closed, as if it were asleep. Hashirama abandoned his creatures, then, and they stood face to face, man against man. _As it should be,_ Madara thought, feeling strangely invigorated. Demon foxes and thousand armed Buddha gods were all well and good, but this wasn’t ever about who was stronger, not really.

It was about who was the better man.

* * *

 

Closer now, Mito was able to watch the fight, and she did so with her heart in her throat. The ground quaked beneath her feet, and she lost her footing several times. Finally, she just found a perch in one of the trees, lashing herself to it with focused chakra. At first, she was drawn to the massive size of the proxies that both men used. If that was the nine tailed fox, it wasn’t what she had been expecting. It was blue and scaled, blazing as if it were made of chakra itself. Hashirama, for his part, wielded some sort of massive wall of hands with a face.

There was a massive explosion of light and sound. Tears sprang to Mito’s eyes and she was forced to withstand the shockwave, for she was terrified that she might simply burn away from the intensity of raw chakra permeating the air. _I’m going to die here tonight,_ she kept saying to herself. She wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, wait for whoever the victor was to come and find her and take her with him, and she would vow to forget everything she had seen here tonight. She would go with either of them, just to stop the fighting. It sickened her.

Her mind kept her focused, even as her frantic heart threatened to burst. _You must weigh the value of one life against many. This is your final test._ That could easily be interpreted to mean her life as well. Touka would not have faltered, so she should not either. She only wished her part in this could come and go already. She did not wish to witness them tear each other apart.

When the dust cleared and she finally had the courage to look again, the kyuubi’s blue skin was peeling away and Hashirama’s giant held it tightly while another one pressed its hand to the thing’s forehead. Mito felt a momentary spike of pride and relief. That was the seal that she had taught him to break the contract. At last, she was almost done! The kyuubi’s eyes closed slowly, and it relaxed in the monster’s grip as if sleeping.

_Now is my chance!_

Using chakra to enhance her movements, Mito transported herself quickly from her secret hiding place among the trees to the head of the fox. She flickered one quick glance at her two lovers, but was momentarily transfixed. They glared at each other, eyes merciless. It was an expression she had never seen of either of them, and it chilled her. Though the task for which she was responsible was of paramount importance, Mito determined for herself that watching these two do battle was important for a different reason. So instead of taking care of the fox as she was meant to, Mito crouched down low beside its ear, trying not to call attention to herself as she observed. Perhaps it should have been strange, to be standing on the head of a creature only so recently deemed legendary, unreal, but Mito did not have the time to give it much more than a single thought.

She looked between them both, feeling the entire weight of the consequences of the things she had done. Uchiha Madara, whom she had loved with her whole being, who made her feel weak and impulsive but special and treasured. His face was impassive now, cold, _murderous_. He meant to kill her husband, if he could. Whether it had everything or nothing to do with her, the truth of the matter was that he meant harm. It frightened her, that one person could house so much hatred within himself, as it had horrified her when he had casually told her of his plans to destroy Konoha. And then there was Senju Hashirama, her husband and savior. If the man had a vicious nature at all, he had hid it well. He was, however, angry. Madara had betrayed his friendship and meant to destroy his home. Hashirama was completely in his element as a leader. Nothing else seemed to matter to him except that there before him lay an enemy, and there was nothing that he would not do to keep Madara from enacting his plan.

Her heart was bleeding out in her chest, for the gravity of the situation was not lost on her. She had loved them both, known their hearts and their dreams and their flesh. She had seen them both in their brightest moments, all soft smiles and softer lips and heartfelt confessions of love and adoration. She had seen them at their worst, though, as well. For Hashirama, it had been after Tobirama had killed Izuna, and he had been grieving for the loss of a friend, suffering for his empathy. For Madara, it had been after Touka had tried to kill him and Mito had spurned him, and he was alone and unloved.

The reality was… one of them was going to die tonight. Simply that thought, that one of them would cease breathing, cease smiling, never glance at her with seductive, bedroom eyes, never brush the hair from her face... It _killed_ her. She knew what right and wrong was. She knew that she had blurred that line on occasion, that she had hurt people and put others at risk. She was sorry for it, and still paid that price.

There was no other way. She knew firsthand that these two men in particular were too passionate, too competitive, and too powerful to take this one laying down. The time for talking was long behind them. This decision would be made with blood, the last echo of the era of warring states. The final chapter in the saga of Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama.

But she did not want anyone to die, least of all these two men.

Suddenly, their expressions intensified, and they snarled the other’s name and clashed. Mito gasped aloud at the first crash of steel into steel. Even during the wars, she had tried to avoid watching the battles, and most especially avoided knowing faces and names. By keeping her attention carefully focused away from the people involved, Mito herself remained coolly detached. Now, though, with every slash, every projectile, and every war cry, she sobbed. She wept, ugly fat tears running down her face, unashamed. There was nothing at all beautiful about war.

It was as she was weeping that he saw her. She had her hands pressed to her heart, a futile effort to quell the pain, tears lighting her cheeks. And then, Madara glanced over and saw her, and he froze momentarily. They made eye contact, and for a wonder, the pain in her heart stopped. She remembered, suddenly, that she had a mission to complete, and a bloody important one at that.

She flew into motion, retrieving the small scroll from her sleeve and unrolling it midair. With a quick flick of the wrists, her brush and ink popped out of the scroll, and she let the paper flutter to the ground. Moving quickly, now, she scribed the various symbols and kanji needed to perform the sealing, finishing with the signature spiral of the Uzumaki. That finished, she scribbled the last kanji upon the palm of her right hand. She felt Madara’s eyes on her as keenly as she had the first time that they met.

Though she wanted, very badly, not to look, her curiosity got the best of her. With her right wrist grasped in her left hand, ready to perform the jutsu, she looked up at him from beneath heavy eyelids. Her breath caught, to meet the naked stare of the Mangekyou Sharingan, a deadly ocular jutsu that had already claimed the lives of many. He could kill her, if he chose, ensnare her right there, thrust her into the nightmare landscape of Tsukuyomi and rape her mind.

He didn’t. He only stared, as if mutely fascinated, the grip on his weapons relaxed and a subtle frown upon his lips, like a frozen moment in time. It was as if he were not even locked in the battle of his life. He merely… disapproved. He had once again proven that the only thing that mattered to him at all was Mito herself.

Grinding her teeth together to stop another bout of weeping, Mito thrust her palm upon the head of the demon fox. Golden chakra chains burst from her hands, filling her with a sense of wonder and power as they encased the demon fox. In that moment, she felt like the strongest, oldest woman in the world, standing atop the head of the world’s strongest demon, looking down upon two tiny little men, locked in a foolish war for dominance. The power was heady, intoxicating, nourishing her marrow and searing her soul. “Ahh…” she sighed, feeling the will of the fox shrink and concentrate until it was little more than a bundle of nerves and impulses.

And then, what seemed like a benign knot of concentrated chakra fused with her body, and Mito gasped aloud with the pain. Dimly, she heard the sound of someone calling her name, but she didn’t have the facilities to care who had done it or why, or whose hand laid against her forehead. Inside her was a boiling, seething, wrathful knot of evil, and it was already trying to claw its way out of her.

“Hang in there, Mito-kun,” the voice urged, squeezing her hand.

She hissed and bit, thrashing, trying to destroy, anything and everything at once. Colors and sounds. Things to bite. Cages... _Uchiha_. She snarled.

* * *

 

She shouldn’t have been there. He had made her promise to take Momoka and leave the village, so why was she…? And the look on her face…? He watched her, unable to look away, too disoriented by her sudden presence there. She seemed upset. He didn’t like it when she was upset. He frowned, uncertain, torn between focusing on the battle at hand and going to her.

It was then that she tore her eyes away and pulled out a scroll. He had never seen her fight before, but that was what it looked like she was doing. He almost smiled then, thinking she had come to assist him, but the thought was gone almost as quickly as it came. After all, even if she had secretly hated Hashirama, Madara doubted very much that she could ever bring herself to assist in killing him. Mito didn’t have a shred of violence in her. She’d even gone so far as to ignore names and faces just so she didn’t have to experience the pale grief that came when someone died in front of her. He kept staring, completely mesmerized, as she extracted supplies from a scroll. Quickly then, she scribbled black markings upon the fox’s head, then her hand.

Then she looked at him.

The look in her eyes announced what she was about to do, for had she not been the one to tell him of her special ability to seal the bijuu? “Oh no, Mito, _no_ ,” he whispered to himself. A moment later, a fountain of golden bonds sprayed up from where her hand had made contact, dancing, alive, damning Madara to his doom.

Madara glanced sharply back to Hashirama, who was now also looking at Mito with the same level of alarm. So, he had not known what she was planning either, which meant that Mito was acting alone.

Which meant that Mito had made her choice. He and Hashirama were equals again. Mito had betrayed them both.  


	39. Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this word, and ever having a chance to use it...
> 
> We are on the PENULTIMATE chapter! :D Are you ready for all these FEELS?!?!?

* * *

As the fox shrank into little more than a ball of energy and slammed with gale force into the body of Uzumaki Mito, Madara was silent, too horrified and dumbstruck to say anything or even move. Judging by the fact that he had not been killed yet, Madara assumed Hashirama was experiencing the same effect.

But then Mito fell to the ground, convulsing with pain and keening, wailing sounds that shouldn’t come from any human. It could only mean that she was suffering, and Madara’s heart tore in two. He screamed, his body moving impulsively, carrying him to her. It was only years of experience and honing his instincts that allowed his blade to rise in time to meet his opponent’s. “You won’t go near her again,” Hashirama snarled.

“She’s dying!” he protested, desperately attacking, trying to fling Hashirama’s sword away. Strike after vicious strike, they fought, for once both attempting fervently to kill the other; Madara, to get to Mito, and Hashirama, to prevent just that. _“Please!”_ he cried, his face damp, although he didn’t much care. “Don’t you care about her at all?”

Hashirama’s gaze flickered sideways in between strikes, for the barest fraction of a second, and Madara _saw_. The Sharingan missed absolutely nothing, even glances so brief and diagnostic as that one. Yes, Hashirama cared. He loved her. How could anyone _not_ love her?

There was a distortion in the air, the odd sound of a vacuum imploding, and a cry of alarm. Someone else had arrived, apparently to care for Mito. _Thank the gods._ He didn’t care who it was anymore, be it Touka or even Tobirama or anyone else.

With Mito’s condition no longer in his hands, he had other things to focus on. Like the fact that Mito had betrayed him, and that Hashirama was pressing him back with furious slashes. Apparently, his once-friend had remembered how angry he was at Madara. Well and good. Madara could embrace his darkness, too.

With a wordless, animal cry, Madara abandoned all restraint and advanced ferociously.

* * *

 

The first thing that registered in his senses was the scent, like fresh pine and newly turned earth. It was a welcome scent, one that reminded him of home. He breathed deeply, feeling completely at ease, freed from the restrictions of ‘the village’ and the expectation that he be some sort of role model for the younger generation, free of Hashirama’s long reaching shadow and the constant feeling of inadequacy, that he might never catch up to the Senju warlord and would forever be doomed to be second. For a moment, Madara just relaxed, basking in the scent, glad to feel free once again. His mind lulled, drifting off to who-knew-where, content to breathe in the clean scent of virgin forest, letting his sore muscles rest.

A few minutes later, he felt her presence like a warm blanket on a January night. She was snuggled into his side, burning from within like an inner fire, keeping him warm body and soul. He cracked open one eye slowly, hardly daring, worried he would see something else in her place, that it was all a dream. But no, there she was, naked and sleeping, a serene, secretive little smile curving those delicious lips of hers. “Mito,” he whispered, a soft caress on his own ears. He touched her lips with his fingertips, willing this to be real.

The moment his skin touched the sensitive blush of her lips, her mouth quirked in a happy, sleepy smile. “Madara,” she said, the sound of his name in her voice a thrill to all of his senses. He had to stop himself from jumping for joy, so he settled for kissing those wonderful lips, devouring them, losing himself to complete and utter happiness. It was the kind of bliss that was so complete that he thought his soul would leave this world, or maybe that it already had. Beneath him, she chuckled with mischief, wiggling away from him to tease him, tossing her head from side to side to try to avoid his kiss, playing. “You’re incorrigible,” she laughed.

Her wiggling only served to excite him more. He pinned her with his body, pinned her wrists with his hands. She settled back and stilled, daring him from beneath the lashes of her eyes, a gaze so glazed over that it seared him straight to his gut. He growled, low in his throat, overcome with desire. “You make me crazy,” he murmured, lowering his face to her neck. “You stay, you go, you stay…” he chastised fondly. “You love me, you love him… How am I supposed to keep you here?” He nuzzled her neck, reveling in the feel of her skin against his face. _Stay with me,_ he willed her.

“I can stay with you here,” she offered, her voice husky, eyelids hooded with desire. She squirmed beneath him, her knees caressing up the insides of his thighs, igniting passions long denied.

He shut his eyes, charged with electricity, chin tipping skyward. He groaned again, delighting in the way this woman could enliven him so quickly. “And where is here?” he purred, cracking open an eyelid. She didn’t have to answer, though, for it was then that he saw. Around him towered the moss covered trees and dappled sunlight patches of the grove in which she had healed his injuries. It was the place that they had first met, when he was certain he had been rescued by an angel, or that he had died and the heavens were filled with pretty women (or just one, in particular). “Impossible,” he blurted breathlessly, overcome with awe.

“Yes, quite,” she said with a giggle. “This is where we first met, remember?”

He nodded dumbly. “Yeah. But… how?”

Her hands roamed, disappearing underneath the hem of his shirt, playing with the edges. “Forget about that,” she commanded, nipping at his collarbone. “Take this off. It’s in my way.”

He frowned, gripping her hands, stalling her. Not that he didn’t _want_ , but something was not right here. “Mito,” he barked with an air of authority. “Where are we?”

She pouted. “I already told you.”

“No, for real,” he demanded seriously.

She sighed and turned her face away. “I can tell you, but then you’ll be sad. Then you won’t want me anymore.”

“ _Mito_ ,” he urged more fiercely, grasping her jaw and turning her face toward him. “There’s nothing that can ever make me stop wanting you. I love you, _truly_ , like no one else ever could, not even Hashirama. He could fuck you every day from sunup to sundown and I would never love you any less because I know that when you’re with him, you _lie_.” He dipped then, kissing her tenderly, releasing her hands. “I know,” he whispered against her lips, pressing their bodies together, “what a kunoichi looks like, and what she is expected to do for mission success. It is _he_ that is the victim, me the victor. Our hearts and souls are entwined. Your lips may lie, but your heart never does.” He pressed his hand to her chest then, felt the powerful drum of her heartbeat. “Ahh,” he sighed with pleasure. “There’s the truth.” He smirked at her.

Her gaze softened. “Madara,” she whispered, her throat constricted. “Don’t make me say it. Please, just don’t.”

He looked down upon her face, so filled with pain and longing. He could stay here forever, with her, frozen in a moment in time that was no longer real, _couldn’t be_ real. If he stayed here, wherever here really was, he would be lying to himself. Somewhere, in another time, he and Mito were not together. A war was being waged, man to man, and he had no idea who was even winning it. He considered swallowing his curiosity and his pride, doing as she wished, to stay here with her until his life force died out. It would be a sweet way to go.

And yet, he needed to know. Perhaps there was still time, to save them both. “Tell me,” he commanded softly, no less powerful for its lack of volume.

Her pupils dilated, blown out by his order. Her body went slack beneath him. “You’re dying,” she barely spoke. “This is a dream.”

Her words struck him like a faceful of ice. “Dying?” he choked out. “No…” he denied, eyes wide with disbelief. “No, I can’t be dying. I… I…” he stammered, struggling to find the words. Anguish flared. “You said you’d _leave_ with me. You told me you _loved_ me, that we should run away together.” The memories of the Kyuubi and her role in their battle coalesced, reminding him. “You— _betrayed_ me! If I am dying, it’s your fault!” He pushed himself to his feet, glaring down at the woman who had deceived him, thoroughly, raping the last shred of his humanity, leaving him emptier than void.

She curled up upon herself, holding her knees to her chest, looking troubled. “I didn’t want to!” she protested, tears forming in her treacherous eyes.

“How am I supposed to believe that?” he demanded, tears forming in his own eyes, burning with the sensitivity of tender blood vessels, exposed from use of the Mangekyou. “Mito… how could you?” His voice broke. He hated how weak he sounded, how pathetic, but then, she had always managed to soften all of his hard edges. It practically blew his poor heart wide open, priming the tortured thing for total annihilation.

“Just once, could you think of your daughter, instead of yourself?” she cried out, immediately clamping a hand over her mouth in horror at what she had just said, for she had just, from her own lips, declared the absolute truth.

His lips curved cruelly. “Ahhh,” he crooned knowingly. “I see. You did all of this to keep Momo-chan safe. Did you not think I could have provided for her?”

“Madara,” she started helplessly, breathing in deeply. “If it had been any different… if you had only found us in time… if we had never said goodbye…” she loosed the rest of her breath in one frustrated huff. “I can’t afford to be selfish. I love you more than anything… but there's Momoka.”

_You’re dying. This is a dream._

None of this was real. She was not real. Nothing that she said was real. So he turned his back on her. “You’re an illusion,” he declared, feeling his heart growing cold, perhaps for real. After all, somewhere else entirely, he was dying, probably bleeding out from a wound her treacherous husband had inflicted upon his person. “ _My_ Mito would never have allowed me to die.”

“I still wouldn’t—“

“THEN _HEAL ME_ YOU TRAITOROUS BITCH!” he shouted at her, rounding on her, his emotions breaking free, a torrent of rage and hurt so potent he was sure he was literally shattering from the inside out, blowing out his chest in a storm of glass and steel, cut to ribbons from the shock of betrayal and heartbreak.

She recoiled, shrinking away from him. And then, without another word, she faded away from their special place, leaving him alone at last.

 _Illusions_ , he scoffed, seething. He knew a thing or two about illusions, _oh yes._ The Mito that walked the living world was an abomination, a bastardization of the woman he had known, hollowed out and replaced with something foul and sly, a cunning she-fox that played with feelings and made men dance upon the palm of her hand. That wasn’t the woman that he had loved. That woman was here, trapped in the dream. He wasn’t sure how, but the certainty of it snuggled deep within the wounded part of his heart and refused to die, for there was no possible way that he could ever believe that his true love had made the conscious decision to kill him.

_Not Mito._

Dreams were just illusions. It wasn’t too late. Somehow, he could fix this.

 _I promised,_ he thought. _I said I would protect you, that I’d find you. If you’re trapped in some kind of illusion and cannot be freed… I will join you there._

* * *

 

“Madara,” she wept, her hands glowing with the green of her chakra, torn between saving him and letting him die. Her hands darted towards him and away, breaking apart inside. “If it had been any different… if you had only found us in time… if we had never said goodbye… I can’t afford to be selfish. I love you more than anything… but there's Momoka.” Finally, settling on healing him, she placed her hands on his chest. The blood was gushing at an alarming rate, staining the ground. His chest hardly moved at all, his skin already too pale from blood loss.

His chest rose slowly, filling with cumbersome air, trying to speak. “You’re an illusion,” he rasped, his voice trapped in a lake of blood. “My Mito… would never… have… allowed me…. to… die.”

Her breath caught, her heart pounding so hard she could barely think. All the force of her chakra filled her to bursting, fueled by the malevolent presence of another signature, far more sinister but promising absolute success. She would heal him if it killed her, bring him back from the brink of death itself. She no longer cared about her earlier decision to let him die. She would heal him and walk away. Perhaps now that he had been soundly defeated, he would stay gone and leave them in peace. Still, she could not bear to watch him die. She was so filled with the power of two chakras that she was sure her skin would burn off, that she would simply flare into a single, blinding flash of light and be no more. She sobbed, thrusting her palms against his chest, ready to prove him wrong. “I still wouldn’t—“

He coughed, a fountain of blood spurting from the depth of his throat. He was drowning, she realized, shutting her eyes.  He swallowed a deep, deep breath, his throat rattling, clogged with the clot of lifeblood. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible, but she heard every torturous, crystal clear word of it. _“Then heal me you traitorous bitch,”_ he sneered, the corners of his lips curling,

She was so startled that she fell backward, severing the connection between them. Then he went still, and so did she.

She didn’t come back to earth and the harsh reality of what her life had just become until Touka’s heavy hand fell painfully upon her shoulder. For once, she was grateful for the pain, for it shocked her back to her senses. “What did he say?” Touka inquired.

Mito stared at the dead husk of a man she had once known. He had been beautiful and perfect and so, so passionate. She blamed no one but herself for the words that had blistered forth from his mouth. “‘Goodbye,’” she mumbled, lying for her own sake.

Touka squeezed her shoulder in understanding, though Mito was certain that she had heard the lie anyway. Touka was like that. “Let’s go home, Mito-kun,” she bade her gently.

Mito nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, unable to tear her eyes away from him. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's me waiting for your comments, hitting the refresh button every 3 to 7 minutes. I need your sadness on this one. Your broken feelings sustain my life force. 
> 
> https://the360degreereview.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/nicolas_cage_goes_crazy_outside_club.jpg


	40. Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys. Last one. Bring yer kleenex. Read it slowly and savor... for this is the final chapter and there will be no more. 
> 
> Before you do... thank you. 
> 
> \--Duckess

* * *

Touka flashed them back to Mito’s home. The illness of travel this time hardly compared to the knot that had already formed in her stomach, so she ignored it completely. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, her fist pressed to her belly, trying to quell the nausea. She felt Touka’s rough clap on her shoulder again, then the kunoichi pulled Mito in for a rough hug, pinching delicate skin between the joints of her armor. “Momoka-chan is already in bed,” she said quietly. “I’d have kept her myself, but…” She huffed a quiet laugh. “I think my man needs me as badly as yours needs you, and he’s _fun_ when he has felt the kiss of death.”

Mito nodded, not ready to speak. She rested her fingers on Touka’s hand for a moment in thanks. The slow rasp of steel was the only warning she had before Touka’s Hiraishin took her away, leaving Mito with… _him_.

Her line of sight drifted shamefully, slowly, to where he sat upon their porch, his face darkened by the shadows of the rising sun. She’d seen him like this once before, but not quite… like _this_. He held his hands out before him, staring. The blood was already dried, but there was _so much_ of it, deep red, almost black in the low lighting, that Mito was certain she was going to be sick. Again, the force of her guilt hit her fully. The tears started before her feet even started moving.

He needed her. He at least needed _something_. Even if he stuffed a dagger into her heart, she needed to go to him, even if facing him in his sorrow was harder than sealing a giant chakra demon inside her own flesh. Making her feet move took far too much effort, but she dragged herself there, one slow, shuffling step after another, until she crashed just before him, her body crumpling beneath her. Then, as if it had taken all the rest of her effort to drop herself before him, her forehead merely tipped over against his knee. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to.

She felt his hands upon her bare shoulders, felt the sticky velvet of dried blood, and let the tears come. She felt the tremor in his hands, heard the sharp intake of breath. Then, something she had never heard before: the hitching gasp of a sob, from _Senju Hashirama_ , the god of Shinobi and the strongest man she had ever known. At the first sound of it, her heart twisted into an ugly, painful knot, wrapping itself around her throat and threatening to suffocate her.

She felt the overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him and never let go, so she did, scooting her body, merging into him, until she was between his legs. She buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around his middle, stuffing her nose into the unmistakable stench of blood and sweat, her stomach heaving, but she didn’t care. As his chest rose and fell with the force of heavy, grief-filled sobs, she held on, letting her own tears pour silently. There was nothing that words could do to fix this. No amount of chakra or medicine could repair what was torn, for wounds of the heart were deep and difficult to heal. For all of her training and stubborn spirit, Mito was powerless to save him from his loss. So she did the only thing that she could do, and she held him.

And for a wonder, he held her, too, draping his own arms over her shoulders and tipping the side of his head down upon hers, the soft curtain of his hair hiding them both from the world as they shared their private pain. Together, they squeezed tightly, having no outlet for an agony that no other would understand, shaking, crying, mourning.

It seemed they had found another thing in common. For whatever reasons they had had, each of them had loved Uchiha Madara. It was a deep, abiding love that none had ever been able to fathom, none could understand but them. Somehow, some way, the man had wormed his way right to the deepest, most secret parts of their hearts. Whatever sins he had committed, whatever darkness he carried as proudly as any torch, he had meant something illogically profound to both of them. Perhaps that was why they had understood each other on a spiritual level that had never made any kind of sense. Maybe that was why he had chosen to forgive her slight, or why she had looked to him to save her when her friends had come down on her for her treachery.

Right now, none of it mattered. In their arms was the only other soul in existence that could understand. And that was why they cried.

* * *

 

It was hours later and still they remained. The sobbing had long since ceased, but in its place was an empty, meaningless silence. There wasn’t really anything to say. Both of them had killed him, even if Hashirama himself had dealt the blow. He didn’t know she had gone back, though. He had only seen her leave. Perhaps he believed that he had landed the fatal strike, but Mito knew the harsh truth. She could have saved him, had _wanted_ to save him.

She hadn’t.

So here they were, sitting side by side on their porch. Hashirama, drenched in blood. Mito, who might as well have been. “Wish I could go back,” he muttered finally, taking a deep breath. His voice was hoarse from disuse, and from crying.

“Me, too,” she admitted.

“What would you have done differently?” he wondered.

She sighed and thought about it. “A lot of things. Insisted he take me with him, for one. There was always darkness in him, but maybe he would have been different then. I can’t be sure.” He nodded in understanding. “I wouldn’t have… well…” she trailed off, not even daring to voice it out loud.

“I already forgave you that, so please, stop torturing yourself over it.”

“It’s not that simple,” she mumbled, but left it at that for now. “What about you?”

He laced his fingers together, hiding most of the blood that still coated his hands, shifted his feet, and sighed as she had. “In all honesty… I’d have let him die that day.”

“Which day?” she asked curiously, looking at him, though she was sure she already knew.

His head turned, and their eyes met. Yes, she had known. “The day I asked you to save him.” Her lips twisted in grudging agreement. Yes, both of their lives might have been easier then.

But then… “What about the village?” she asked. For, if Hashirama had not had a friend among the Uchiha, their alliance might never have happened.

His smile was rueful. “In all honesty, the Uchiha were a weakening force. Uchiha Tajima was pressing his own forces against unbeatable odds on a regular basis. It was laughably easy to bait him into death traps. I didn’t do it often, because I knew that _he_ was among them and I didn’t want him to get hurt. It wouldn’t have taken more than another five years, and we’d have conquered them. I didn’t want it that way, though. I didn’t want to see the Uchiha fall. They’re a proud, strong clan, very powerful. It would have been much better for everyone if Senju and Uchiha could stand as one.” He smiled a bit more brightly then. “And see how much they’ve done already?”

Mito thought about Kasumi and her husband, and could not help but agree. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

His smile slipped, and he glanced away. “Not everything,” he said quietly. “I’m not invincible, Mito.” Their eyes met, then, and she saw. That cheery brightness he often displayed on the surface was subdued. It might not ever be the same again. In the past few hours, he had aged considerably.

She had almost thought that he was, actually. Senju Hashirama had been untouchable, solid and strong. Despite the era in which he lived, he had managed to emerge from the end smiling and filled with infectious energy, shaping a torn world into a beautiful age of peace and prosperity. Though she had known early on that he suffered of his own set of insecurities, he had shown them so rarely that Mito had often forgotten that they even existed. As it turned out, the man had but one weakness.

As it turned out, it was the same one that she had had as well.

Tired and sad, she let her head fall upon his shoulder. For a long time they sat there, silently supporting the other as the sun came up over the horizon. The birds began to wake up, chirping to each other across the yard, arguing about who got the best spots for breakfast at the metaphorical table. She smiled, but it, too was subdued. It seemed unfair, in a way, that the world just kept on turning when everything about it was falling apart at the edges. As if nothing had happened. As if no one had died.

Yet, the sunrise was beautiful. The colors seemed exceptionally brilliant this morning, the star itself so bright that it hurt. The birdsong never sounded so harmonic, multiple voices working in perfect unison, the song of morning. It was almost all _too_ wonderful, unjustly so. That brought more tears to her eyes, and she wasn’t even quite sure why other than that it was too pretty for her to handle right now. She ground her face into his shoulder, glad for something real, someone as agonized as she. At least she wasn’t alone in this.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice soft, as if he were afraid he might interrupt the music. “How the world keeps on just as it always has, even when we’re hurting.” He wrapped an arm around her then, and his head rested gently upon hers.

It was so similar to what she had been thinking that she laughed. “I was just thinking much the same thing,” she confessed.

“Ah, well,” he mused. “There you have it, then.”

The peace was too much. If it continued much longer this way she would be destroyed. “Hashi…” she started, dreading this conversation already. “It might not be the right time, but—“

“Shh,” he consoled, rubbing her shoulders. “I already know. From the moment I learned how you’d kept Madara from becoming Hokage, I was aware of the possibility. I made my peace with it.” His voice was relaxed, almost happy, even. “You haven’t been well, and I know what that means." He paused. "Don't fret. It’s a good thing, you know.”

Her eyes widened, too choked up to even speak. All that came out was a dry whisper, more of a squeak than a voice. “How?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, pleased with himself. “Well. I always wanted a son, too, so it gives me another chance. And now, we have something to remember him by, as well. Perhaps we can find healing in that.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat, not sure how she felt about it. She felt evil and dirty, so unlike the last time that this had happened. She wasn’t even sure she wanted this child. It was actually rather shocking that _he_ did. Why didn’t he hate her yet? _Shouldn’t_ he hate her?

“Come now, Mito,” he purred. “I’ve loved every moment I’ve had with Momoka, but I never got to see her first steps, or hear her first words, or watch her teeth grow in.” Mito felt her smile grow with every admission, remembering them herself. Her heart swelled with a mother’s pride. “Admit it… you love being a mother. Would you really be sad to have another child, and to raise it together with me?”

A reel of images flashed through her head at the thought of another baby, perhaps a pouty, sullen little boy who loved his oto-san more than he loved her, exasperating her. She thought about him tracking dirt throughout the house and shouting at him to please take his shoes off, or to please stop pestering his sister. She thought about breakfast with the four of them, and Hashirama walking him through the village, explaining that someday, it would be his responsibility, too, to protect their people. She thought about Tobirama’s cool exterior cracking at the advent of a nephew, even if he knew the absolute truth.

The shadow of Uchiha Madara was gone. All of the hurt that he would ever cause was robbed of its future. This momentary state of affairs was only temporary. From now on, there would be nothing but laughter, and love, and all of what was left of their lives ahead of them. Happiness, and peace.

Family. Whole and complete, no more doubts or secrets.

She hurt. He did, too. They’d lost something very precious to them; Uchiha Madara could not be replaced. And yet… there was the blossoming of a hopeful feeling that they just might… be… okay. Maybe they didn’t need him anymore. “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad,” she teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “Hey, Mito… that thing you did with the Kyuubi…?”

She froze, the happy feeling fleeing. “What about it?” she asked, remembering how its thoughts had merged with hers momentarily, and how keenly she had wanted to destroy. The feeling had scared her. Still scared her, as the thing she had sealed was still trapped within her body, curled up like a sleeping serpent. She didn’t know when it would wake again, or what sorts of vile things it would try to make her do. She didn’t regret sealing the fox; With the seal that she had used on it, she could bend the beast to fight for them, using its chakra for the good of Konoha.

But still, the realization that she would have to live this way now for the rest of her life was a terrifying thought, and one that she’d rather ignore as much as possible.

“I saw you fall. I heard you scream.” He paused as she stilled, trying not to remember how badly it had hurt. “Are you alright?”

 _No._ She wanted to say yes, but she was sick and tired of lying. So she didn’t, not this time. “No, not really.” She breathed deeply. It felt so… _good_ to tell the truth. He waited for her to explain. “It hurt. The fox feels… evil, like it’s filled with hatred. It wants to destroy, to maim, to kill, and sometimes… sometimes….” she shuddered. He squeezed her hand to remind her that he was there. “Sometimes it feels like _its_ thoughts are _my_ thoughts, and it scares me.”

He was quiet for a time, absorbing her words, considering the predicament. “Well,” he said at last. “Do you feel it now?”

She shut her eyes and tried to feel it. It was there, a subtle, muted presence, but it was sleepy. “Not really.”

“Hm.” He was quiet again, thinking it over. “So there’s a way to keep it calm.” He was nodding. “Let’s try not to get it all riled up then. Mito,” he finished more firmly. “I don’t want you fighting again.”

She was in complete agreement. She apparently had some skill as a kunoichi, but she definitely didn’t like it. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

* * *

 

He sucked in a great lungful of air with a sharp and audible gasp. It was the first time he had breathed in months. The knowledge of that was a dim awareness, but he knew it to be true. His hand flew to his forehead, eyes closing; his head ached something fierce, and his eyes were sore. He blinked them open and shut several times. _No,_ he realized. The right one was blind. “So that technique has a price,” he mumbled, more for his own benefit than anything. He hadn’t heard the sound of his own voice either, though it seemed raspier and more cracked than before. He cleared his throat several times, testing.

The memories came back, slowly, achingly. Their last, passionate kiss. The fight with Hashirama. Mito, stealing the Kyuubi from him, proclaiming their severance and spelling his doom. Mito, screaming in pain. Hashirama, stabbing him through the back while subconsciously, he dreamed of her. 

He sighed. He had had a long time to make peace with their separation and her betrayal. A long time to realize what needed to be done for it, now. His happiness was locked away in a tower of dreams, unassailable unless he could master the dream itself. His thoughts drifted to that shrine, that stone tablet, speaking of eternal happiness when light and darkness entwined. It spoke of other things, too… things he had not mentioned. Things he had been preparing for, when Mito was his. Well, there was no reason he still couldn’t put _that_ plan to work.

He blinked open his left eye, adjusting to the garish colors of the waking world. This… false world. False, because here in this world, Mito did not love him and Hashirama was not his friend, and together the two of them held his daughter for ransom, spoon feeding her lies about her own heritage. He did not belong in this world. He sighed, thinking of the sweet dream he had been having, knowing for a certainty that that had been the only reality. The universe had flipped on its head, where dreams were reality and reality was a dream. The key to restoring the balance was the Infinite Dream, and within that dream was where the real world was now trapped. It was up to him, now, to save that world. 

He would become the darkness, and in becoming darkness, he could regain his light. 

And then they would be together again.

 _Forever_. 

* * *

**\--The End--**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TheBestGuest: "...she would have to stay with Hashi, even though she already promised Madara."  
> Amy: "...stay loyal to Hashirama..."  
> RedGloriae: "...hashirama and mito live happily ever after."
> 
> And my personal favorite:  
> TheBestGuest: "...you can have Hashirama have her in life and Madara have her in his infinite tsukuyomi or in the afterlife." 
> 
> This was SO close to how I had written the ending that I just laughed and laughed at how brilliant that was. 
> 
> Applause, for all of you who saw what I had hoped that you would. ^_^ If there are any questions about what has happened or you'd like to discuss this with me, just leave me a comment. I will always respond. :)  
> \---  
> I made you another video to thank you for your continued support. It's easier than writing a wall of text about how much I appreciate you, and IMO, more personal, too. It's about 15 minutes (I had a lot to say!). And, also, I talk about the two works I have in progress. One of them will be rated Explicit, so be forewarned before you click the link, okay?
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JXeJAmkPm1M&feature=youtu.be


End file.
